


Queen of Scots

by Naoe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: A/B/O, Alpha Castiel, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Altarboy Sam, BAMF Dean, Brothels, Crisis of Faith, Dubious Consent, M/M, Mild Bestiality, Omega Dean, Possessive Castiel, Priest Castiel, Prostitute Dean, Rape/Non-con Elements, Recreational Drug Use, Sexual Harassment, Sibling Rivalry, Stalking, This is still a WiP, True Mates, Underage Sex, a/b/o dynamics, it's not that bad but you're forewarned, slick, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-04-30 13:55:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 67,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5166302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naoe/pseuds/Naoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Right until the moment the sweet scent of caramel apples tickled his nose, Emmanuel Castiel Novak had only felt the "call" to God and the priesthood. His iron resolve had made him a legend (or a robot) among his peers, a disappointment to his parents, and a mystery to his older brothers. Until Dean Winchester came into his life, he had been <i>sure</i> of his decision. </p><p>Right until the moment the scent of apple pie and warm linen tickled his nose, Dean Winchester had had no interest in alphas except for what they could pay for his company. He was also sure his 14-y/o brother 's interest in God was going to be the death of him. Because Sam's love of God was keeping them both near 'Father' Novak and it was seriously pissing him off. </p><p>If hating each other for disrupting their well-laid plans wasn't working, what about the alternative?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Omega Gold+Caramel Apples

**Author's Note:**

> I am gauging interest in this story because I don't know if I want to continue posting. It's my first ABO, and updates would be slow because grad school and friggin' thesis writing/defense...blah blah blah. 
> 
> So, this will only continue past the first chapter if there is any interest in it. :(
> 
> A/N: I’m not Catholic, but I grew up in it. If there’s anything wrong, tell me, because, TBH, I don’t remember, and that’s after three years of Catholic school with nuns for a principal and Algebra teacher.
> 
> Dean is 17 at the beginning of this story. There is no "sexual" contact between he and Cas until he's 18. Just a heads up if that gives you the squick.
> 
> I will warn ahead of time for non-con stuff.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Father Castiel meets the Omega of his worst nightmares.

_"Tribulation has been to them as a furnace to fine gold - a means of proving their virtue, of opening their so-long blinded eyes, and of teaching them to know themselves and their own failings". (Mary Queen of Scots on the lives of rulers, Essay on Adversity, 1580)_  
  
---  
  
“Father” Emmanuel Castiel Novak was a man of Faith. He had grown up in a wealthy home with several brothers and a sister, but, when he was 16, he felt “the Call.” Despite his parents’ disappointment and the teasing he received from most of his siblings, he entered the priesthood with eyes open.

No one would have thought that a gorgeous Alpha like Castiel would have taken to the priesthood, but he did. He politely came to any of the arranged meetings his parents set up with potential mates, but none of them moved him. He graciously declined their mating invitation, announced each time he was going to be a priest, and left his parents to handle the aftermath. After a few times, they stopped insisting he meet with potential mates, and he continued on his journey to find God. The only thing he did as an ‘Alpha’ was that he missed masses once every three months for his rut cycles, which couldn’t be helped. Regardless, he loved working in the Church with his friends and parishioners.

Castiel had even insisted on being put in a Catholic high school. He had studied counseling and religion, graduating with his Bachelor’s in Theology and eventually his Master’s in Religious Studies. During all those years, Castiel had studied under Bishop Giosuè Ángeo, AKA Joshua, a quiet man of faith who preferred to tend to his garden to commune with God than attend to masses and paperwork. The whole time Joshua was there for him, guiding him along. At twenty-five, Joshua had ordained Castiel a deacon, and he would remain a deacon until taking on the mantle of priest.

But most people just called Castiel “Father” because they didn’t really recognize the difference, and Joshua just told him to stop trying because it merely led to frustration and it would be true soon enough. He wore the collar, and he might as well get used to it.

In contrast to Joshua, his brothers, Lucifer and Gabriel, were constantly teasing him and trying to lead him into temptation: bars, strip clubs, and even gambling dens. He ignored them, and they stopped when they realized that Castiel didn’t just sit in the corner, mortified. He found the nearest sad soul and started counseling them. It was annoying for them how consistent he was in his faith, and even more so that he pissed in their prank Cheerios every time they took him out.

Because, for an Alpha, Castiel had a steel grip on his desires. Most alphas couldn’t control themselves around omegas, especially when they were in heat, stating omegas enjoyed it and that was the natural way of things. Omegas were meant to be knotted, so the saying went, and the alphas’ behaviors reflected that.

For that reason, the Church was primarily made of betas or alphas with strict control. Very few omegas took to the cloth because they had to stand in front of mixed and diverse gender designations, and most alphas wouldn’t take orders from an omega. Most omega priests ended up serving in seminaries and monasteries. Some ran schools, since it wasn’t that they couldn’t run things, but that alphas tended to try and dominate them at every turn, and it was a sad truth that many omega priests had been kidnapped from the churches and never returned.

There were, of course, laws against this, since fertile omegas were quite rare, especially first- and second-levels. But omegas were told it was their fault if they were kidnapped or raped. Very few alphas actually went to prison for their crimes. It's just the way it is, the omegas sighed.

Because of their so-called 'lack of control,' it was one of the main requirements for an alpha’s admittance into the priesthood: control. And Castiel’s was almost legendary within the diocese, because, without it, he couldn’t tend to the omegas who often came under his charge abused, raped, or abandoned. And there were _so many_ omegas who ended up in the church shelter. There were those forced into prostitution, and others forced into arranged matings. Castiel tried to keep his temper, but whenever he came across what could only be a newly-presented omega at fourteen or fifteen already forced into prostitution and often left pregnant and shaking on his doorstep… he honestly wished he _was_ the angel his friends called him. He longed to smite those alphas and show them the omega’s pain.

But Castiel had a secret, one he had only told Joshua. The main cause for the control he exerted over himself was the _utter lack of desire_ he felt for omegas or even betas. It made him think that God had brought him into the world different, with a cracked chassis (as his mother said) that wouldn’t allow him to feel the painful surge of hormones that other alphas felt when confronted with omegas in heat. In truth, omegas’ heats, the wild tornadoes of pheromones and slick, made him feel vaguely ill, and, on the whole, he considered himself fortunate that he was not a slave to his base alpha desires.

After all, coitus seemed so untidy and generally uninteresting.

He was fine without it. He had God and his duty.

* * *

It was a breezy afternoon in October when _it_ finally happened, the thing he was most afraid of in the world and yet, privately, yearned for. He had opened a couple of windows to allow the pleasant autumn breeze to pass through the nave when a scent tickled his nose. It was the smell of caramel apples, one of his favorite treats, but _better, much, much **better**_.

He followed his nose out, wondering what smelled that delicious, to find two young men fighting on the church lawn. The younger one was lanky and obviously still growing into his own. His jeans were faded, worn, and a bit too short on him, the softness of baby fat was still evident around his face. Long, brown hair swayed as he yelled at the other, pointing fixedly at the church. The other young man had much shorter, blonder hair. He was taller, and his frustration was evident as he gripped his head and let out what Castiel suspected were a stream of swear words. He even recognized some of them.

He slowly approached them and, as he did, a breeze blew by him, carrying a few orange and brown leaves with it and _that scent_. He paused, as his brain shut down everything to analyze it, and, from somewhere deep inside, he realized it was the scent of an _omega_. As he recognized it, he tried to shut it down, calling on his often-vaunted control over his libido, but something about the scent was tickling him, and he was uneasy. He wanted to back away, back into the church where it was safe, but the boys had already seen him.

The younger one grinned with delight and ran forward, while the older one cursed under his breath and reluctantly followed after. The older boy slouched in a well-worn dark brown leather jacket that was a bit too large, but it couldn’t hide how thin his t-shirt was or the holes in his jeans.

Then again, those holes could have been intentional.

Castiel had no sense of fashion, but he had heard some of the church youth talk about buying jeans _with_ holes. Again, illogical to his mind, but he wasn’t the one wearing them.

“Can I help you, boys?” Castiel tried to smile inoffensively, spreading his hands out in front of himself as if to prove he was unarmed. He was honestly afraid to move, and, if he did, somehow he would end up racing back into the safety of the church.

The boy with the floppy hair squinted at him with obviously unpresented gray-green eyes and asked, “Yeah, I want to know how to become an altar boy?”

Castiel blinked. _Oh_. “You must have had your First Communion and be chosen to serve.” He looked up at the older boy, who was scowling quite fiercely at him. “You also have to be under the age of eighteen.”

The boy looked smugly back at the other, who rolled his eyes, and shrugged like he didn’t care. The kid then stuck out his hand and smiled at Castiel. “My name is Sam Winchester. I’d like to be an altar boy.”

Castiel liked Sam off the bat. He could tell already that here was a young man with drive and, if the look in his eyes are anything to go by, intelligence. “Nice to meet you, Sam. My name is Deacon Castiel Novak.”

Sam tilted his head, like he had never heard the word, and it didn’t surprise Castiel, since running into someone who was actually in seminary and a transitional deacon was rare. He smiled gently and laid his other hand over Sam’s as a warming gesture.

“I’m studying to become a priest,” he explained quietly.

“Hey! Hands off the goods, padre!” Castiel got a flash of bright green and freckles as the older boy stepped between them and slapped away Castiel’s hands brusquely with a narrow-eyed glare. Castiel looked into his face and his breath hitched in his chest. The sun-kissed, freckled skin was warm and still dewed with youth; he was a beautiful young man of maybe seventeen or eighteen, despite how that lovely pink mouth smirked at him and his green eyes filled with derision.

Sam sighed heavily and said, “And this is my older brother, Dean.”

At this distance, the scent was unmistakably Dean and ungodly delicious. He looked into those bright green eyes glowing omega gold around the pupils, pupils that were growing larger as Dean caught his Alpha scent.

It was without warning, only a moment after recognizing that Dean was the source of that scent, that Castiel’s Alpha took offense at being slapped and looked down upon by an omega and rose up in him angrily. He tried to rein it in, to exert some of his church-lauded control over it. It refused, and, to his surprise, a growl trickled out of his mouth.

The omega must have seen the red bleeding into his eyes, because he growled back, baring his teeth and not backing down. But, like a fog, the scent of arousal had curled into the scent of anger and rebellion, like hot chocolate with a hint of cinnamon. The omega’s hands were clenched at his sides, shaking, as if he were forcing himself to stand his ground.

It was beautiful. A beautiful scent.

Castiel felt something curl in his belly he had never felt before. He ignored it and worked harder to get control. Instinctively, his claws and fangs had emerged to hold down and force the omega into submission, the first time since he had presented, while his lower body was half hard to mate and claim.

But he was more than just his Alpha.

He was Castiel. He was a representative of The Lord and representatives of The Lord did _not_ randomly hold young omegas down and mate them on the church lawn.  

From outside himself, he thought he heard the omega spit out, “Pureblood!” like it was a curse, and getting out the word hurt him.

But Castiel couldn’t focus on that. He squeezed shut his eyes, ignoring the sound of the omega’s voice, the smell of arousal, fear, and anger from the omega, ignoring the raging desires of his Alpha to hold the omega down and _fuckmatebreed_ , something that had never happened before in his entire life. He willed away his fangs and claws, the burgeoning erection in his pants, and, although taking deep breaths was a mistake, as each one brought in the beguiling flavor of _Dean_ , he kept doing it, desperate to regain his sanity.

When he finally opened his eyes, he found Sam eyeing him warily from his place between Dean and Castiel, arms outstretched. Absently, Castiel could see that Sam’s shirt was a bit too big and probably a hand-me down. It was thin in spots and the collar looked worn. The lanky, thin boy in the hand-me down clothing, was trying to protect his omega brother from the big, bad Alpha.

He was such a failure as a representative of The Lord, and he knew it.

The thought helped simmer down his inner wolf, and he choked on his breath a few times, his hands clenched, his eyes squeezed shut, and his teeth bared at the sky as he braced down his urges. He recited the Lord’s Prayer under his breath, and, when that only marginally won out against the sweet omega scent in the air, he began a rosary in his head. It took him a moment, and a couple of “Glory Be”s before he mastered himself a bit more.

He opened his eyes again, and, surprisingly, found the boy and omega still standing there warily. Distantly, he noted that the omega’s eyes glittered green in the afternoon light, his freckles dark against his skin, paled with anger and fear, and, when another faint breeze swirled past him, it carried his sweet scent to Castiel like a trial from God.

It should be bottled and sold as just Pure Sin, Castiel thought giddily. He wondered if he was about to be struck blind like St. Paul, because he was definitely having a revelation, albeit an unpleasant one.

Castiel pulled in every final bit of strength he had, and reined in his Alpha, caging it inside himself, and letting it snarl helplessly against its enclosure. He chuckled with disbelief, wondering why he had ever envied other alphas, and he swallowed his remaining desire down hard, choking on it and leaving it lodged in his chest like a bullet from a gunshot. Possibly, he mused, the size of a cannonball. He finally turned his eyes back on the boys, and found Sam still in his protective stance, Dean behind him, teeth bared, ready to fight.

He nodded acceptance at their postures, and chuckled at it tiredly, the absurdity of the situation, at it all. He put out a placating, not-clawed hand. “I… I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

“You’re a fucking Alpha,” came the snide reply from Dean. “And a _pureblood_ to boot. Of _course_ you’re going to act like that.”

 _Pureblood_. No one had ever said that to him in those tones. It was usually said with admiration and faint scents of envy. The power to transform completely had been lost to all but a handful of bloodlines, and the Novaks were one of twenty-seven clans on the planet. Even within his own star family, only half of his siblings could transform fully into a wolf, the rest living quietly as second-level lycans. It was one of the biggest reasons his parents were disappointed in his life choice. After all, most of the population were betas or had barely any bloodline left, and could barely scent a different assignation. And then there were the second-level lycans, those with strong traits as Alphas and Omegas but unable to transform. But first-level lycans, purebloods, were extremely rare and were often sold into mating bonds.

And, really, it was his first time being hated for his true assignation. Usually he was attacked by over-eager omegas looking to be mated, or alphas looking to sell their omega children to him. Not even his cassock fended them off some days, and that’s when they knew he was only an alpha and _not_ a pureblood.

Exhausted but intrigued by the response, Castiel blew out a chagrined laugh, his eyes seeking out the omega’s green. “To be honest, that has never happened in my entire life. Never. Not even when confronted with violence by another alpha, I have never lost my temper. I do humbly apologize.”

He wanted to break down laughing at the humiliation and the crushing of his prized control, and it was starting to show, as he found himself doubled over holding in delirious laughter wrought of frazzled nerves. “Oh my Lord, thank You for granting me patience and restraint,” he choked out in a chuckle, shaking his head with disbelief at the same time.

Sam and Dean watched him warily, and, from his doubled-up position, he motioned Sam over.

“I’m sorry, son,” he huffed through his sniggering. “It should not happen again. Come by on Thursday after school. I’ll show you the ropes to serving, and ask the Bishop if you could be worked into the schedule.”

Sam’s eyes went wide and he grinned with joy. He threw his grin back at Dean, that bright, wide smile, and Castiel watched Dean’s angry, protective expression melt into fondness and resignation.

“Fine, but I’m coming with you.” He said, looking to Castiel for confirmation. Castiel’s heart stuttered over this, his breath hitched painfully, unwilling to spend more time in Dean’s ungodly tempting presence, but Sam turned sad puppy eyes on him, and he folded like a broken chair.

“That’s… fine,” he said slowly, finding he had to rip his attention away from the guarded omega and trying to smile at Sam. “I’ll be here.”

Sam grinned and nodded, turning to Dean and giving him a hug. Dean rolled his eyes, but Castiel saw how much he loved his little brother when he gently hugged him back and scented his hair. Green eyes with gold-crown auroras locked onto his eyes with gratefulness and he felt himself smiling in reality.

Sam let go, and they said goodbye politely, Sam talking a million miles a minute in his excitement as they walked away and Dean just listening and nodding fondly.

Castiel watched the brothers walk away curiously, as they obviously had little money and Dean was possibly the proudest, _angriest_ omega he had ever met, and he had met quite a few in his life. He turned back to walk into the church to think and pray. He had a lot to ask forgiveness for today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, World Building note--A/B/O: There are three levels of lycan in each gender designation, but only women and higher level male omegas can give birth. Even in that case, female alphas of all levels have issues carrying to term. Second-level alphas think they are bad asses, but the law is technically on the omegas' and betas' sides. However, that old saying about 'heaven is high and the emperor is far away' works here, meaning no one pays attention because alphas are generally vindicitive asshats and law enforcement is often made up of alphas. 
> 
> Most people in this world are non-secondry carriers, or considered null-betas. That is, betas with little to no lycan characteristics. They carry the genes, but they are recessive. Most first and second level don't want to breed with a beta because they think it thins the genetics. Betas face discrimination as poor breeders and as being (practically) the 'prolatariat,' the working group who keep their heads about them and keeps things running.
> 
> First and second-level omegas of both primary sexes (fe/male) are coveted, and 'breedable' first and second-level male omegas are practically jewels. They are coveted because a 'breedable' male omega often pups second-level male alphas when bred to a second or even third-level alpha, and often twins or more.
> 
> Purebloods (first-levels) are so rare so as to be practically royalty. They are often proud and arrogant that they are first-level, since their genetics strengthens any bloodline. They are generally treated like genetic aristocracy.
> 
> For ease of reading, all capitalized A/B/O are second-level and higher. Lower-case a/b/o are thirds or in general.


	2. What's Love Got to Do with It?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's had a rough night, but Sammy's not making his morning any easier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a thank you to all those people who asked for another chapter! Please keep commenting; it encourages me to keep going in my times of darkness (AKA: Grad school).
> 
> This chapter is exceptionally long, but the rest shouldn't be. This is also the only chapter that is written like this (you'll see). After this, it'll be more straightforward. 
> 
> **Reminder** : 2nd level lycans and above are Alpha/Beta/Omega. 3rd and in general designations are alpha/beta/omega.

Dean Winchester didn’t believe in God, saints, angels, or anything that supposedly,  _mystically_ cared about his sorry Omega ass. After years of taking care of himself and Sam, he couldn’t afford to believe: God gave no shits, so why should Dean?

His little brother, on the other hand, was a fan.

Dean didn’t get it.

When their mother died in a house fire, their father had decided he couldn’t stay in Lawrence anymore and had become a bounty hunter. A true alpha to his core and an ex-marine to boot, John Winchester ruled with an iron fist, and he taught Dean everything he knew about fighting, tracking—and killing if necessary. Dean, after all, would present as _alpha_ , just like his old man.

But then, at fifteen, when Dean had woken up with slick slithering down his thighs and Sammy had gagged and run into their Dad’s bed to get away from the stench, the dream of a father and son bounty team had died. Dean presented as an Omega and his Dad had freaked the fuck out.

John had doubled Dean’s training regimen, forced him into isolation, and put him on birth control. He refused to have his son, his  _firstborn_ , be a stinking little breeder, slicking and whining for a knot, and subservient to every alpha who crossed his path. He trained Dean to be a _man_ , a pseudo-alpha, and, most of the time, that worked okay. He could take care of himself. He didn’t feel the need to just drop trou and present like most of his kind. He was a  _Winchester_ , not just an omega bitch.

It didn’t matter, though. No matter how much John beat it into Dean not to just roll over for any alpha, Dean knew the truth: he really was just an omega bitch. He could feel it in his blood sometimes, and it took everything in him to deny his instincts during a heat. But that was the clincher, wasn't it? By his third heat, by the time his Dad finally got him birth control and even suppressants, Dean knew that deep inside him there really was a little breeder who just wanted an alpha's knot.

It was humiliating.

It didn't help that his somewhat feminine good looks, his unmated omega scent, and his defiant attitude attracted alphas like flies on shit, and he spent most of his time, when he left the motel rooms they spent their nights in, just fighting not to get raped on his way to get a soda from the vending machine. 

It was exhausting.

When he was first presented, it had been worse, because his face was so feminine and his body the lithe omega ideal, all lean soft muscles and limber joints. Now, at seventeen, he still had some of that, but he was big for an Omega, taller than many alphas, with broad shoulders and bulky muscle. That was also fine, but some alphas saw his physique as a reason to get offended, that an omega dared to be physically more impressive than them.

Of course, Dean fought them all. Usually, he won, but sometimes there were too many. Sometimes they got a good shot in and he was down and at their mercy. He tried not to think about those times too often, but it did, he’d admit, contribute to his disbelief in God.

And then, of course, there was the whoring.

* * *

 

When Dean was fourteen, he couldn’t stand Sam’s crying into his pillow with hunger anymore. He couldn’t. John had gone off to find a man guilty of murder and hadn’t returned in a couple of days. They had no money; what they had had gone to the motel room costs, paid in full until the end of the week.

Desperate, Dean tried to find a job, but what with being underage and looking even younger than his age, he couldn’t quite find anything that paid him decently.

And that is how he fell into it.

He had been sitting on the curb of a 7-11 when an alpha had sidled up to him and said, “How much?”

He had had no idea what the guy was talking about. He had looked up, confused, at the blonde guy in the nice jeans and Daft Punk t-shirt, sipping on a Slurpee. The guy’s dark gray eyes had glowed red for a moment and he had again said, “How much, little man?”

“For what?” Dean had tried to be suave, but he had somehow ended up sounding scared.

The alpha had laughed, his tongue blue. “If this is your negotiation strategy, you need to up your game.” He had taken another sip from his Slurpee and said, “Blowjob.”

_Blow job?_

Dean Winchester had not been born yesterday. He had known what a blowjob was. What had never happened was someone boldly  _asking_  him for one.

But… it was money… and how bad could it be?

“Fifty bucks,” he had said finally, looking the alpha in the eye.

The alpha had snorted. “Only if I get to knot your mouth.”

“HELL NO.” Dean had reared back in disgust.

“Then twenty-five,” the alpha had pushed, crouching down to look Dean in the face.

“Forty,” Dean had returned, sticking his chin up defiantly. If he was giving up his mouth’s virginity, it’d better be worth it.

The alpha had looked at him and had eyed the defiant chin. Red had begun to bleed into the gray eyes, and he had nodded slowly. “Fine, forty. Better be worth it.”

They had ducked behind the store and got to business, the guy pulling out his dick and Dean kneeling to do his “job.” For Dean, it hadn’t been entirely unpleasant until the guy suddenly came on his face in great volume and force. The alpha had held him there and smeared the cum all over Dean’s face, using his thumb to rub it in between his lips.

“Just like I thought,” the alpha had said, wiping off his thumb with the edge of Dean’s mouth. “Perfect little cocksucking lips.”

Dean had let him and was rewarded with a pat on the head (with the same hand, ew!) and two twenty-dollar bills.

Dean had rinsed himself off with a hose behind the store, ignoring his shaking hands as he scrubbed at his hair and shirt, and the feeling of violation and filth that had crept up his spine and that had made him nauseous and dirty.  He had focused, instead, on using the money to buy cereal, milk, bread, peanut butter and jelly. It was enough food to last them at least the week. He had also bought a candy bar to share with Sam, and had hidden the rest of the money—still a good twenty bucks left—because they would need it.

He had dodged Sammy’s questions and his stupid sad eyes by presenting him with a box of Lucky Charms. The broad smile had been enough to make it worth it. He had watched for a moment as Sammy gleefully, gratefully, and awkwardly shoveled cereal into his mouth, scooping it out of a paper bowl with a plastic spoon (both snatched from the neighboring motel’s ‘continental breakfast’ bar), and then he had fluffed Sammy’s hair as he had walked by to the bathroom so he could jump in the shower.

He had focused on that happy face and had calmed his nerves in the shower, scrubbing away at his skin until he had been nearly rubbed raw from the rough washcloth. _Sammy was fed and happy._ He had thought it had been worth it, even as he had crawled under the water and puked out his guts.

Wiping his mouth, Dean had thought: _One time. Never again._

_Never again._

* * *

 

Three years later, Dean was a pro. At first, he had only done it on and off, but then he realized that he could make real cash with his looks and youth, and started doing it for bigger and better money.

On  _really_ good nights, he pulled in almost a thousand bucks from a  _very_  long night of hard fucks in motels or blow jobs in alleys. On bad nights, he managed around a hundred, but never less than that. Never again. He invested in condoms. He learned tricks from porn. He bought ‘uniforms’ for his trade, and he had hidden it all from Sammy for the last three years. 

Meanwhile, John continued to leave them for unspecified amounts of time, but sometimes—while he was gone—the boys got lucky and got to stay with friends: Missouri, Bobby, or Ellen. It was an endless round of pull-out couches and air mattresses.

But Pastor Jim was one of those friends they got passed to, and he was one of the ones to whom Sam got particularly attached.

Pastor Jim was an old friend of John’s, back from his Marine days. He had come back from ‘Nam full of repentance and became a man of the cloth to make up for his days of death and destruction. He had PTSD and a quiet drinking problem. He ran a small soup kitchen and donated time to veterans at retirement homes. He was a good man.

He was the one who had taught Sam about Catholicism and Faith, and he was the one who convinced the boys to go to catechism and get their First Holy Communion (although Dean, at 12, didn’t care and was even a bit old for it, whereas Sam, at 8, was a tad too young but loved it). John, being a devout atheist, had blown a gasket when he found out, and they ended up at Bobby’s more often than Pastor Jim’s after that. 

But apparently distance and time weren’t enough to separate Sam from his faith, and, once their Dad decided to settle them back in Lawrence, with Missouri to watch over them and Dean in charge, Sam had decided to understand God even better. He wanted to  _Believe_. He said something about always feeling unclean all the way to his soul, which Dean didn’t believe for even a second because Sammy was his perfect little brother. Sammy was going to have the life that Dean would never have. Sammy would grow up an alpha, like their old man, and be above the bullying omegas crap. Dean was raising Sammy right.

If anyone was unclean, it was Dean. You can’t have a different dick in your mouth every other day without feeling something. Dean preferred to feel nothing, but that was not an option when you had a teenage brother who grew at an accelerated rate and ate more than his weight.

When they had moved into the trailer park (the cheapest long-term rental they could locate), both boys had been excited. It was the first time John was leaving them completely on their own for a long-term, even if it was under Missouri’s eye, and that woman was practically a mind reader. The rent was cheap, although they had to pay utilities, and at least there were three rooms, which meant they didn’t have to share. It was a miracle. 

They felt like superheroes, living their lives the way they wanted. Dean had fondly nicknamed the place, “The Bunker,” thanks to the old heavy metal shed that hid a storm cellar where backup generators were kept, a place to store emergency supplies, and an old CB radio was plugged in. They were told not to go in there, except during a storm, but Dean thought it was cool that they had a small emergency cellar of their own. They used to not even have a house, and now they had a storm cellar! 

With Dean’s savings and the money that John left, they had been able to pay for two months’ rent. But Sam’s growth spurt was eating through Dean’s savings pretty quickly, and, even if they scrimped and saved, cut every corner they could, they still looked to end up short a couple hundred by the end of the second month, with no hope of making it through the third. 

Dean tried to find a job, but he didn’t even have his high school degree, and all the jobs he  _could_ take paid pitifully. So, he took a small daily job to help cover the bills and went back to his night job.

There were a couple of problems with moving all the time, though. One of them was he was always the new kid on the block, so to speak. He never really had time to refine his turf and ask for the highest prices. He always had to start out with small money, and it was fine in the short run, but it was in places where he stayed for awhile that big money rolled his way, with repeat customers and references. He was, after all, a gorgeous and rare second-level Omega. 

Here in Lawrence, though, back on his old turf — so old he barely remembered it — he had decided it was going to be harder to hide his second job if he was hanging out at the truck stop or manning a corner like the rest of the girls.

So, Dean had chosen to find a brothel to work out of, one where the money made it worth it. The brothel he had found catered to the well-off alphas and betas in the community, hidden from public view, and entrance by invitation only. Dean got paid  _very_  well for his time. When things were _really_ tough, however, he sold his slick to the secret slickery. Selling slick was even easier than selling tail. At $100 per ounce, he could rake in money to save for Sam’s education, but knowing there were strange alphas out there getting off to his slick made him feel weird and itchy, so he didn't do it more than twice.

Money wasn’t what was on his mind this moment, though. 

He had just returned from a long night, where his clients were particularly rough, a few of them throwing a bachelor’s party for their young alpha friend. Boys from KU, out on the town on their families’ dimes. Rich enough to engage Purgatory; not wealthy enough to get into the gates of HEAVEN.

Dean was tired because the groom-to-be had taken a real shine to him, and, in his drunken alpha state, had tried to mate him. Dean had had to knock him off before he knotted him, and had run out to find Benny, the bouncer. Knotting cost more at Purgatory, as did most things outside ‘normal’ sex. Crowley made sure it was all accounted for, and he kept his deals, making sure everyone knew what they were getting into and what they were getting out of it. 

The guy had been summarily thrown out, banned from the premises, his fees doubled, and his friends had also been threatened with permanent expulsion. It was actually a bit of a relief considering how he used to have to handle it: a fist in the guy’s face and then either running or beating the hell out of the john. He might be an Omega but he wouldn't go down without a fight. He was used to fighting. His Dad made sure of that.

Crowley was a savvy businessman, though. Although prostitution was illegal, he made really good money with the brothel. It was connected to the low-level bar/dance club in the basement he had whimsically called, “HELL,” and basically a money-laundering spot for his backdoor operations. The entrance waiting line was usually around the corner, and Dean was glad he never really needed to wait to get in. Even on weekdays, the club was never empty, and Crowley made sure to keep it that way with attractions and themes.

So if HELL, was for the commoners, and Purgatory, as the brothel, was made for executives, then the slickery/entertainment palace was named HEAVEN, and was actually even higher class and only for the highest rollers.

The lowest rollers in HEAVEN made high six-figures, and the club was so exclusive that alphas came from Kansas City and even Topeka to indulge in the decadence. The liquor was the finest, the escorts the best, the service discreet and impeccable, and everything an alpha could want was allowed...for a price.

They rarely sold tail in HEAVEN though; the main attraction was the high-priced collection of slick, the finest on the black market. An ounce of the highest-grade, organic slick could sell for as much as $100,000, and the alphas could enjoy their indulgences in private rooms with happy omegas, the best slick, and all other debauchery to ease their needs. They could also lounge with others and smoke the slick through finely crafted hookahs, designed to draw the best essence, leaving alphas blissed out on fine hormones while lying across couches, leaving prostitutes or lovers to tend to their needs.

Dean had only sold his slick to HEAVEN those two times; he didn’t want to be part of the scene. A few of those clients enjoyed getting rough, and, for a price, could tie down and whip a prostitute until they bled. As long as there was no long-lasting damage, sometimes they would do even worse. Dean had no temperament for that, even if the pay was ten times that of the average brothel romp.

But his weekend in the brothel was done—even if it was already 4 a.m.—and he was finally home. Dean sighed as he put his leather jacket down on the back of the couch and then threw himself with an exhausted sigh onto the couch. He had a couple of bruises on his hips from the alpha’s grip and a hickey the size of an apple on his right shoulder where the bastard had gotten overly excited by his scent and tried to bite him. He had only missed because Dean had been watching him in the mirror and jerked away at the last moment.

He rubbed the bite under his shirt, scowling at the heated throb it gave him. He was lucky he healed quicker than most Omegas or Sam was going to notice the bruise for sure.

Still, even badly bitten as he was, Dean had made a good chunk of cash, a little over two grand, thanks to the guy’s break in good behavior and an earlier client who had left him a nice fat tip. He took a moment to enjoy the peace and quiet of the trailer and then slowly hoisted himself up. He had showered at Purgatory, but he still felt nasty. His ass hurt from the abusive alpha, and he knew he was going to have a rough morning.

He checked in on Sam, who was sleeping soundly, his laptop on and playing what looked like the Lord of the Rings. Dean closed the laptop with a finger, watching Sammy shift a bit in his sleep with the noise, and then quietly left, shutting the door behind him.

He pulled the cash from his jeans’ pocket, the ball of hundreds still looking impressive to his young eyes, and he pulled off half of them and stuck them into his mattress for safekeeping. Sam was going to college, hell or high water. Dean had saved maybe two-thousand dollars in the last month, which was great. At this rate, in a full year, he’d have enough for a whole semester’s tuition, if Sam really got into his dream university, Stanford. Hopefully, the little genius would get enough scholarships to help tide over what Dean couldn’t make. He resewed the rip in the mattress and stretched his shoulders. It didn’t matter what happened to Dean anymore; he was used goods. Sam, though, _Sam_ could make it out of here. Make a real life for himself, a normal life, like he craved.

He pulled off his shirt with a grimace, the bruise on his shoulder aching with each move. He rubbed a hand over the hot flesh again and groaned at the aching throb. He was going to have to be careful until it healed or Sam was going to notice.

Shucking his shoes and stripping off his jeans, he climbed into his bed nude, pulling the blankets around him. He was too tired to put on pajamas for Sam’s innocent little eyes. His brother wouldn’t come in any way, since he knew Dean had been working. He sighed and snuggled in.

Today was Sunday, and it was his only day off.

At 9 a.m., Dean heard the fire alarm go off and swearing in the kitchen. He leaped out of bed and stuck his head out the door, yelling, “SAM??”

More cursing ensued, and Sam yelled back, “Sorry!! I tried to make breakfast!’

Dean nodded, as he had figured that was the problem, and he grimaced as the motion pulled lightly at his shoulder. He turned and dragged on a t-shirt—thankful the bite was healing somewhat and it wasn’t visible with his shirt on—and some boxers, and wandered back out into the kitchen.

Sam had opened the door and all the windows, panicking at the smoke spiraling off the pan of burning eggs. Dean tried to hide his laughter, but he really couldn’t. He burst out laughing, making Sam snap a glare at him and give him a full-on bitchface #7 ( _really?_ ) _._ Dean ended up laughing more at his disgruntlement and looked at the charcoaled eggs in the pan.

Sam had attempted scrambled eggs.

Sam had epically failed.

Dean snorted amusement as he scraped the eggs into the trash, shaking his head. “How is it you can read a million books and still be so fucking clueless about cooking?”  He pointed at the pan with the fork he was wielding. “Seriously, can’t you squeeze a cookbook into your schedule?”

Bitchface #21 (Screw you) came into play, and, after putting the pan and fork in the sink, Dean laughed harder and tousled Sam’s floppy brown hair.

“Cut it out, jerk!” He cried, trying to fend off the heinous attack.

“Make me, bitch!” Dean chuckled, walking back to his room for pants. He yawned and stretched his arms up over his head, and instantly regretted it as it pulled the huge bruise again. The pain made him grumble about alpha assholes as he drew on some sweatpants to hang out in the trailer all day.

When he came back out, Sam was sitting in the small dining area, sulking over his chocolate milk, and pretending to read Bulfinch’s Mythology.

Dean grinned and again tousled Sam’s hair, causing the 13-year old to slap at his hand and glare mightily. “What do you want to eat, kiddo?”

“What do we have?”

That was usually the optimal question. Until Dean had started working in Purgatory, they hadn’t had much money. Some days, it had been just slightly stale bread from the discount bread store. Other days, it was eggs and bacon, or even pancakes.

“How many eggs did you destroy in your quest to cook?” Dean asked snidely.

Another bitchface, which fell into a sulky expression. “I only burned one. I was afraid to do more than that.”

“Good thing too, from the looks of it.”

Dean pried open the refrigerator and found there were still eight eggs left and enough bacon for breakfast and maybe BLTs for lunch. He asked Sam if that were cool, and, although he was something of a health freak, Sam really couldn’t say no to a BLT.

Dean made breakfast, yawning his way through it, and missing his little brother’s concerned looks. “Di-Did I wake you up too early?” 

Dean turned to look at his little brother for a second, as he pulled a plate out from the cupboard. “Pfft… C’mon, Sammy! I can get up for this.” He set the plate with the egg and two bacon strips on the table and nudged Sam knowingly. “Besides, I don’t want the trailer to burn down. That’s important.”

Sam really couldn’t counter that, and he gave Dean a sad puppy-eyed look while poking at his new egg. “I’m sorry, Dean. I was just hungry.”

Dean nudged him again and winked. “I know. Don’t worry about it, Sammy. Just don’t cook when I’m not looking, okay?”

Sam poked his egg again and nodded. “Yeah, okay. And stop calling me Sammy.” He said with a pout.

Dean laughed at him. “Never,” he crowed, breaking his egg over the pan.

Sam wrinkled his nose at him and took a bite. “So how was work?”

Dean regaled Sam with his fictional job’s hassles, making the kid laugh. Dean felt his lies were worth it when he was talking about Benny (in a fictional role, although it did happen) falling over a customer and landing face first in a woman’s lap, and Sam snorted chocolate milk out from his nose.

Dean laughed so hard he fell off his chair, while Sam blushed to the roots of his hair before he busted up laughing too, swiping at the milk dribbling out his nose.

* * *

By Sunday afternoon, Dean was tired of being cooped up, even if it was marathoning Dr. Sexy, M.D. with Sam. His body needed a stretch, and he couldn’t do it very well on the couch. He made it through the episode (Dr. Sexy was fighting with Dr. Piccolo because he was caught making out with young intern Betty Drew) and said, “Hey, let’s go out. There’s gotta be something going on we can check out.”

Sam stared at Dean, seeing as Dean rarely gave up the chance to watch Dr. Sexy. “Um, does it matter what it is?”

The question surprised Dean, and he narrowed his eyes suspiciously at his brother. “Why… is there something  _you_  want to do?”

Sam fidgeted a bit, averting his gaze, and then, looking at his lap where his hands were knitted together, he mumbled something Dean didn’t catch.

“What?”

Sam took a deep breath and looked at Dean, his face completely red.  In a rush, he said, “IwanttostopbythatCatholicchurch.”

Dean blinked at him. “What?”

More slowly, Sam said, “I, uh, I want to stop by that Catholic church.” His hands twisted in his lap. “You know… the one by the park?”

Shutting his eyes, slowly and patiently, Dean asked, “Why?”

“Because I want to be an altar boy.”

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face and heavily sighed. “Are you fucking serious?”

Sam nodded and then exploded into a monologue of explanations. Dean tried to keep up with it, but who can really keep up with a hyper-13-year old’s exposition on anything?

When Sam showed no sign of slowing down (in fact, he seems to pick up speed, or maybe that was just Dean’s perception), Dean got frustrated, shut his eyes impatiently, and put out his hands to stop him. He said, “WHOA-WHOA-WHOA-WHOA! Stop. Just… slow down there, little brother.”

Sam paused and Dean saw he was still flushed with embarrassment. Dean rubbed his eyes with his fingers and took in a deep breath.

“Okay. One more time  _more slowly_ ,” he said, as Sam opened his mouth to launch into his explanations again. “And, whittle it down to a minute speech.”

Sam snapped his mouth shut at that and fidgeted. “Um, okay,” he said finally, seeming to have thought out his argument. “Well, a couple of months ago, I was thinking about things that Pastor Jim had told me about God and forgiveness, and, uh, well, I was thinking that maybe… I could earn some forgiveness if I was an altar boy.”

Dean started to open his mouth to smack down this stupid idea when Sam stopped him with two open palms and hurriedly said, “I mean, we’re going to be here for a while for once, and I’d like to at least experience it...if it’s okay..?”

Dean started to open his mouth  _again_  but Sam pulled the puppy-dog eyes on him, and he started to feel his resolve failing. He spluttered for a moment, but then opened his mouth again to shoot down the idea and Sam upped the ante: the trembling bottom lip.

Dean rolled his eyes, crumbling under the lip onslaught, and sighed like he was seriously put upon, nodding. “Okay, fine. But, Sammy, this is a  _one-shot deal_. If there’s no one there, we leave, got it? I’m not doing this again. It’s embarrassing.” 

Sammy grinned brightly started to run by to get his shoes from the doorway. Dean managed to snag him by the shoulder as Sam tried to dash by his seat, bringing him to an abrupt stop.  Dean pointed a stern finger in Sam’s face (to Sam’s surprise) and said firmly, “And you’ve got nothing to be ashamed of or to ask forgiveness for, Sam. You’re a good kid. You’re gonna be a great adult.”

Sam blushed and got flustered, smacking at the pointed finger. “Yeah, sure, Dean. Let’s _go_ already!”

Dean smirked and rolled his eyes as Sam pulled away and eagerly put on his shoes.

 _With my luck, one of my customers will be in there and out me_ , he thought, stretching his shoulder minutely. The church looked pretty well off when they walked past it. He wouldn’t be surprised if a few of those alphas visited Purgatory regularly. After all, that’s what people do: sin.

* * *

The walk to the church was pleasant, seeing as the autumn weather was cool but not cold. A slight breeze ruffled their clothes and hair, and they enjoyed themselves, Dean making crude jokes about sex and Sam crying out in disgust and smacking him.

"So when you finally pop yer knot and find a nice girl to settle down with..." Dean imparted wisely.

"Ewww! Dean!" Sam fake gagged. "Don't talk about knots."

"Big, red knots the size of oranges," Dean grinned, as Sam flailed.

"Oh my god, stop! Just! Stop! Why are you so gross!?"

"It's natural, Sammy." He smirked. "You need to relax, so when you finally dip your giant alpha knot into..."

Sam threw himself at his brother, who caught him by the head and rubbed a noogie into it while Sam squealed and pummeled him. 

"I won't be shorter than you forever, Dean!" He gasped as he wiggled free, hair mussed and face red. He threw a look at Dean that meant he was going to regret it as Sam straightened his clothes with an irritated huff. 

Dean chuckled and ruffled Sam's hair with an affectionate hand, avoiding the petulant swat Sam aimed at him. "Never, Sam. Never."

When they arrived at the church, the parking lot was mostly empty. They knew they needed to go to the rectory and locate someone to ask about becoming an altar boy. When they strolled up and checked the door, it was closed and locked. Dean grinned and said, “Well there you go. Guess God doesn’t want you waiting on him, Sammy. Let’s go grab a burger.”

“Dean, you can’t just give up like that! Just because there’s no one in the rectory, that doesn’t mean there’s no one in the building.”

“Are you shitting me? You agreed that if there was no one there, you’d give up!”

“But, we didn’t even  _check_  to see if anyone’s around! I’m not going to just give up like that! C’mon! Don’t be a punk! Let’s just check the church! Maybe they’re still cleaning up!” Sam pointed vigorously at the church, pleading eyes on, and Dean started to feel his resolve crumble yet again.

“A  _punk_?” Dean looked down into those puppy eyes and he knew he had lost. Frustrated, he gripped his hair and snarled, “ _goddamnmotherfuckersonvabitchonafucking **crutch**!_ FINE!!”

Sam’s jaw unhinged at the cursing, embarrassment obviously setting in, locking him in place and making his ear tips red. That’s when a gravelly voice asked, “Can I help you, boys?”

The boys turned to see a man walking out of the side of the church to meet them. His eyes were unbelievably blue, even from that distance. His hair was mussed up, like he had just gotten out of bed, or possibly (Dean thought crudely) just had sex in the pews. His shoulders were broad and he was wearing a priest collar with a button-up gray shirt that was tucked into black slacks with shiny black dress shoes. He was smiling weakly and had spread his hands out in front of himself like he was about to get mugged. As he approached, Dean realized he was a bit taller than the man. Of course, for an Omega, he was huge, but this guy, with his thinner frame, and slim waist couldn’t be an alpha.

Furthermore, he honestly looked uncomfortable, to Dean’s eyes, something that he had rarely seen in an alpha, and Dean wondered why—because they hadn’t done anything.  _Anything except swear like a dock whore practically on the church steps_ , his subconscious reminded him tartly. He ignored it and kept his eyes on the guy.

Sam had turned to look at the fellow, squinting at him faintly before asking with a lilt at the end, “Yeah, I want to know how to become an altar boy?”

The man blinked at them absently and thought a moment.

“You must have had your First Communion and be chosen to serve.” He looked up at Dean with those guileless blue eyes that, for some reason, really pissed him off. He added, “You also have to be under the age of eighteen.”

Sam looked smugly back at Dean, who rolled his eyes, and shrugged like he didn’t care. Because he didn’t. All this religious hoodoo voodoo BS was for the birds. Sam stuck out his hand and smiled at the guy. “My name is Sam Winchester. I’d like to be an altar boy.”

Mr. Blue Eyes looked Sam over briefly and seemed to come to some conclusion. He smiled politely at Sam and took his hand to shake it.  “Nice to meet you, Sam. My name is Deacon Castiel Novak.”

Sam tilted his head, like he did when he heard something he didn’t know. Dean actually thought it was adorable, and wanted to ruffle his hair, but then Mr. Blue Eyes smiled gently and laid his other hand over Sam’s in what looked like an overly friendly way.

“I’m studying to become a priest,” he said quietly.

That made Dean nervous. Dean was well aware what was said about altar boys and priests, and he was having  _none_  of that. Sammy was going to be a virgin until he was 90, if he had anything to do with it!

Without thinking about it, he stepped between them, his hand flying out and slapping Mr. Blue Eye’s groping paws off his little brother. He snapped, “Hey! Hands off the goods, padre!”

Mr. Blue Eyes looked genuinely shocked by Dean’s actions. He stared at him for a moment. Dean smirked back at him, daring the probable-beta bastard into trying something. He took on alphas all the time; a small beta like him would be nothing.

Behind him, he heard Sam sigh heavily and say, “And this is my older brother, Dean.”

At this distance, when the breeze whirled around them and picked up the scent of an alpha, it was strong. Dean looked around surreptitiously, but only the frazzled-looking guy on the lawn and Sammy were close. He looked back at Mr. Blue Eyes, and realized the scent was coming from him. The scent was ungodly delicious, like apple pie and linen and the smell of rain after a long drought. Without warning, his inner Omega danced and begged to be let out, to lie down for this alpha and let him mount him. He felt a bit of slick escape him, as desire wound itself way through him. He tried to shut it down, and, as a whore he had plenty of practice controlling his lust. But it proved more difficult than he thought. As it was, he was glad he had sprayed his ass with scent blocker, since he couldn’t control _that_. Hopefully his arousal wasn’t evident to the man.

But then, like a switch had been flipped, the alpha looked angry and feral. A growl trickled out of his mouth. His gorgeous blue irises started bleeding alpha red, but Dean refused to heed his biological desire to stand down and present. He had fought too long to let any alpha show of aggression just make him submit. He growled back, baring his teeth and not backing down. At the dominating display, he felt more slick trickle out, and he choked down the moan that desperately wanted to escape his lips, as he clenched his fists at his sides. He was determined to stand his ground, no matter what.

It was as Mr. Blue Eyes grew out fangs and claws that Dean realized what they were dealing with.

He spat out, “Pureblood!”

His body shook with the recognition, his face paling, although he realized that watching a pureblood transform was something incredibly rare. There were so few purebloods in the world, much less pureblood _Alphas_. The world was overrun with betas, since they were the most average of the sex assignations, easiest to give birth to, easiest to live with.

He had only known two other purebloods, thanks to the brothel’s exclusive clientele. They had been so used to being praised for their bloodlines that they took advantage of everyone, including little omegas like Dean. But he didn’t know what had set the Alpha off to this degree. Well, he knew he was uppity for an Omega, but he had never seen an Alpha react so viscerally.

While he was standing there, stunned by the sudden change in the man, Sam stepped between them, throwing his arms out, spread eagle, like his skinny thirteen-year-old body was going to stop a pureblood Alpha from holding Dean down and knotting him right there on the lawn. At this point, Dean couldn’t even run, knowing full well it would trigger the Alpha and just Make Things Worse.

But, to his surprise, Dean saw the Alpha peek at Sam, something desperate in his eyes, before standing straight up and glaring at the sky like it offended him. He was taking deep breaths, and he finally squeezed shut his eyes and bared his fangs at the sky, his body trembling like a plucked string on a violin, his hands balled into fists at his sides.

It only took minutes, but the anger that simmered in Dean, the resentment, boiled through his body and he glared at the Alpha. The Alpha slowly opened his eyes, and he seemed genuinely surprised that they were still standing there. Dean bared his teeth at him, in case he thought he could still come at them, even with Sam still standing between them, arms still spread.

Mr. Blue Eyes eyed Sam’s posture with sorrowful acceptance, and he nodded and chuckled tiredly. He put out a hand, and said, “I… I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

Dean snarked, “You’re a fucking Alpha and a  _pureblood_  to boot. Of  _course_  you’re going to act like that.”

The guy looked shocked by Dean’s response, and, suddenly, those blue eyes went wide with dark amusement as he looked earnestly into Dean’s eyes, seemingly bemused by the whole affair. He smiled crookedly, blowing out a chagrined laugh, and said, “To be honest, that has never happened in my entire life. Never. Not even when confronted with violence by another alpha, I have never lost my temper. I do humbly apologize.”

Suddenly, for some unknowable reason, he chuckled harder, and then, as if he couldn’t stop, laughed until he was doubled over, the whole thing tinged with hysteria and disbelief. Dean had no idea what he was thinking. The Alpha peered up from his doubled-up position, and those blue eyes twinkled at him mischievously, curiosity evident in their crystal blue depths, and Dean wondered why? What did he see when he looked at Dean? Dean felt a warm blush trying to make its inglorious way up his face, but he forced it down.

Because Mr. Blue Eyes was still chuckling, he heard the guy choke out over his gasps, “Oh my Lord, Thank You for granting me patience and restraint.” Dean didn’t understand why he was shaking his head with incredulity at the same time.

Dean noticed Sam was also watching the guy carefully, and, when Mr. Blue Eyes saw that, he motioned Sam over with one hand.

“I’m sorry, son,” he huffed through his sniggering. “It should not happen again. Come by on Thursday after school. We’ll get the paperwork done and I’ll show you the ropes to serving, and ask the Bishop if you could be worked into the schedule.”

Sam’s eyes went wide and he grinned with joy. He threw his grin back at Dean; it was Dean’s favorite bright happy smile that he got to see way too rarely, and he felt himself loosen up. After all, Mr. Blue Eyes had managed to get himself under control. And Sam was happy. That’s all that mattered.

But Dean still wasn’t comfortable with his little brother hanging out with religious types, especially pureblood assholes, who took what they wanted and didn’t usually bother to ask later.

“Fine, but I’m coming with you,” he said, looking to the guy for confirmation. His suspicions were roused by the tense expression on the guy’s face, but then Sam, the evil little shit, turned those sad puppy eyes on the guy and Dean tried not to grin as he watched the fellow give in, deflating like a balloon on a hot day.

Sam’s puppy eyes were _deadly_.

“That’s… fine,” The guy said slowly, “I’ll be here.” He turned those gorgeous deep blues on Dean, and Dean fought hard not to get aroused at how clear and pure they were. No one  _ever_ looked at him like that anymore, like he was innocent and clean, not since he had presented.

Sam grinned and nodded, turning to Dean and giving him a hug. It was a bit of a surprise, since they weren’t all that touchy-feely in their family, but it must have meant more to Sam than Dean realized. He rolled his eyes, gently hugged him back, and scented his hair. The scent of fresh grass, vanilla ice cream, and little brother filled his senses, and he smiled into Sam’s hair. Realizing exactly how much this meant to the little scrub, Dean lifted his gaze to the guy, locking onto those blue eyes with gratitude. He was surprised to see the man smiling for real, not just at himself, as the smile reached all the way to his eyes and filling Dean with more desires he could never act on.

When Sam wiggled free, they said goodbye politely. Then Dean tried to listen to Sam as he talked excitedly about being an altar boy and how he wanted to celebrate with some ice cream and pizza. As they walked away, Dean just listened and nodded fondly. He didn’t look back at the guy, the pureblood.

He didn’t.

Well, maybe he _did_ , but he _definitely_ didn’t look at the man’s ass as he walked back into the church…

Damn...it was a nice one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to make it clear that 14-y/os giving blow jobs to older men who are exploiting them is not cool. I have always understood the reasons people (especially women) fall into prostitution, but when they are this young, it's statutory rape. 
> 
> However, this is ABO and rape is always around the damn corner for these worlds. In THIS world, it's illegal to rape anyone IF you're caught. It's harder to prove if you're an omega, because although they technically have the same rights, they're considered 'sluts' and objectified for their designation. The law usually just ignores them.
> 
> World building Note: If it's not clear, Crowley owns a building with three levels of 'fun.'
> 
>   * The basement is where all the everyday people with regular old incomes go: HELL. Booze, regular old street drugs, plain corner prostitution and bathroom hookups all here.
>   * The second floor is a tightly-controlled brothel: Purgatory. Nicer booze. Designer drugs. Rooms at a premium.
>   * The third floor is an "Executive Lounge" where if you can pay for it, it's yours. All of the Earthly delights are yours, making it HEAVEN. Exclusive booze. Best drugs. Slick addictions fed. Anything your heart (and bankroll) desire.
> 

> 
> For those who need more visual stimulation, I see the building as something like [this](http://images.fineartamerica.com/images-medium-large-5/three-story-vintage-brick-building-linda-phelps.jpg). The extra room is for his offices and... stuff. Just... trust me. Stuff.
> 
> If you have ANY questions or suggestions, please tell me. I am very open to constructive criticism.


	3. Burning Down the House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time the Winchester Boys go to the rectory, they argue, nearly burn down the place, and get to eat nice sandwiches. Castiel manages to hold it together. 
> 
>  
> 
> Barely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A/N: I have some Catholic Faith type stuff in here that I just… stuck in here for the story’s sake and it actually doesn’t really matter if you know or not. Seriously, you don’t have to know. Heck, it’s a miracle *I* know. If you must know, I did try and explain. Badly, no doubt._
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> Thanks to everyone who has supported this fic! If I say something wrong, please correct me. I'm no longer a practicing Catholic, so I might screw up... 
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> Also, I'm going to try posting around the 25th. TRY.

Castiel was working with the account books when he heard the knock. He looked up at the clock on the rectory wall and saw it was 4 p.m. He stood and stretched a bit, since the chair was not very forgiving and his back was paying for his sitting there for three hours straight. But there was a problem in the accounts, and he was having difficulty sorting it out. He was a man with a Master’s degree but he apparently couldn’t do math for the life of him.

He sighed as he answered the door, opening it to find Sam and Dean on his doorstep.

Of course. It was Thursday.

He had forgotten.

Sam grinned at him brightly, and said, “Hi!” while Dean just nodded at him, a dark expression on his face. It wasn’t favorable foreshadowing for how the afternoon would pass.

He let them in without hesitation and with a greeting. As they passed him in the doorway, Dean’s scent spiraled up and tickled Castiel’s nose. Intriguing, sexual, _desirable_.

He ignored it, immediately locking down his inner wolf. He ignored its growls and impatient pacing in his head. _Mine mine mine._

Castiel just wanted to ram his head into the door frame to stop the yammering in his blood.

If Dean felt anything, he was also ignoring it. His face was impassive, and Castiel felt like he was deliberately hiding himself for whatever reason because when they first met, his face had been a kaleidoscope of emotion. He was probably trying to be good for Sam’s sake, Castiel wagered.

 _Sooner begun, the sooner done_ , he thought as he closed the door and followed the boys in.

Castiel perched on his desk as the two boys took seats in the office’s two dark leather chairs. They were generally for when Castiel or Joshua needed to counsel someone or have a private meeting.

Sam was eager to get straight to it, but Castiel handed him some paperwork from off his desk to fill out, making Dean crane his head to look, and asked them, “Where did you receive your First Communion?”

They told him about the church in Blue Earth, Minnesota, and how they had spent time there with the pastor. Castiel didn’t question them too intently, since Dean looked like he would rather bolt than answer, but Sam answered willingly, at least insomuch that he could, eyeing his brother for the okay on some of the answers.

Apparently there was something going on that they were attempting to keep quiet, but this wasn’t the time to talk it out of them. They understandably didn’t trust him yet, so he could wait until they did.

They handed back the forms, their names printed on there: Sam with small, neat letters; Dean with a messy scrawl of letters that made it barely legible. Castiel recognized the address and, looking at their birth dates, he asked, “Where are your parents?”

Both boys tensed, Sam’s eyes darting to Dean’s with a slight tinge of fear. Dean’s posture unfolded from the relaxed slouch he had been sitting in to a ramrod straight, shoulders back, chin out defensive pose. Very much a touchy subject, Castiel mused, ignoring the vague growl of desire that curled in his belly at ~~his~~ ( _no no no_ ) the Omega’s pride.

“Our father is out of town,” Dean said curtly. “I’m responsible for Sam.”

Castiel couldn’t help his eyebrows jumping upward in surprise. He asked slowly, “You’re just seventeen…?”

Defiance glared out from those spring-green eyes, his chin jutting out even more, partly in anger, partly in fear. “We also have a neighbor watching us. Our Dad will be home soon.”

Castiel quickly looked over at Sam, and wasn’t surprised to see doubt flash over his face before he controlled it, forcing his expression to become flat and unreadable. Definitely something going on, Castiel judged. He nodded to himself, and tapped the papers on his desk, putting them aside. He decided distancing himself from Dean was advisable, purely because he had never smelled anyone or anything so tempting. He gritted his teeth and girded his metaphorical loins. _God grant me patience_. 

“Seems in order. Let’s see what you know.”

Castiel decided to test them, more to gauge their commitment than to see if they really knew the information. He started out with basic questions: What was the Holy Trinity; who was John the Baptist; what was the Immaculate Conception?[1] He was surprised at how easily both boys responded, especially Dean since he really seemed not to care one whit about being an altar boy.

He challenged them a bit more: how do you say the Rosary; what was the Passion of the Christ; recite the Apostle’s Creed?[2]

They answered correctly and concisely, and he asked, “Okay, then, why do you want to be altar boys?”

Dean’s eyes narrowed at him at that, whereas a shadow passed over Sam’s face.

“Um, I want to be closer to God,” Sam murmured, his eyes downcast and his fingers twisting where they were intertwined on his lap. “I want to believe there is good in the world.”

Castiel noted the nervous fingers, and nodded, realizing there was more to this, perhaps something he didn’t want his brother to hear. In contrast, Dean was slouched in his seat, his eyes still narrowed and his lips set in a tight line of displeasure.

“I don’t want to, but I will if Sammy wants to do it.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “I said stop calling me that! It’s _Sam._ ”

Dean grinned at him slyly, “Sure, _Sammy_.”

Sam gave him an amazing ‘just you wait’ expression for a thirteen-year-old that sent Dean into peals of laughter, clutching his stomach and trying not to fall off the chair.

Sam rolled his eyes and shrugged apologetically at Castiel, but, although Castiel saw Sam’s expression, he found himself glued to Dean’s carefree laugh.

It was the first time the Omega wasn’t wearing a guarded look and legitimately looked like his seventeen years. His eyes sparkled joyously at teasing his little brother, and Castiel felt something warm and… _fond_ try to take root as Dean leaned over and mussed Sam’s hair affectionately. Sam swatted at Dean’s hand and he almost managed to duck the questing fingers, glaring with annoyance only a younger sib could understand.

Castiel chuckled at their antics and he said, “Sam, you have my sympathies. I, too, am a younger brother. They never stop, even when they’re shorter than you.”

Offended, Dean snagged Sam — who yelped — off his seat, putting him in a half-hearted headlock. “This squirt ain’t taller than me. There’s _no way_ he’s ever going to be taller than me!”

Said squirt rabbit punched Dean in the kidney to be released, and snarled, “Shut up, Dean! I’m going to be huge! I’m going to _so_ tower over you, and when I am huge and manly, I’m going to laugh at you being so short and an Omega!”

Dean _oomphed_ at the punch, but held on tightly, rubbing a noogie into his brother’s head as he furiously tried to free himself.

“Being an Omega doesn’t mean I’m weak, little man,” he said, quickly pinching Sam’s nose as punishment and releasing him so fast he almost fell over.

Sam covered his aching nose with a hand and threw Dean another angry look. He then turned back to Castiel, hand still over his nose, and said, “Sorry, Father.”

Dean sat back in his chair with a smirk and, with patent dishonesty, said, “Yeah, sorry, Father.”

Castiel tried to hold back, but the antics reminded him of Gabe and Luke, and how they liked to wrestle. There was only a year between the twins—Gabriel and Luke—and Michael, and they loved to wrestle. Watching these two made him miss his older brothers for once, and he couldn’t stop himself from throwing his head back and letting out a hearty laugh at Sam’s put-upon appearance or, even less so, Dean’s mischievous grin.

Both boys stared at him laughing, and he coughed and huffed himself to a stop. “Sorry,” he chuckled, wiping at his mouth, “But you two remind me of my older brothers. They were always wrestling and pranking each other.”

“But not you,” Dean said, his eyes narrowing, this time in older brother suspicion.

Castiel shook his head. “When I say I was the younger brother, I mean I was the baby. Michael was already in middle school, and Lucifer and Gabriel were both almost done with elementary school when I was born. Hael is two years older than me, but she’s the only girl, so they cut her a lot of slack.” He paused to think over what he just said and then amended, “Mostly.”

“How many siblings do you have?” Sam’s eyes were wide with admiration, and Castiel wasn’t entirely sure why.

“I have four older siblings, and a bunch of cousins who I grew up with, although I was really close to only three of them.” He smiled fondly at the memory. “My family was very religious, but not oppressively so, if that makes sense. I mean that in, Michael, Hael, and I love being Catholic, whereas Gabe and Luke have been rather… lax… about it.”

 _Very lax_ , he thought wryly.

Sam shut his eyes and shuddered theatrically. “Three older brothers. I just have to put up with Dean, and that feels like a trial from God every single day.”

“Hey!” Dean yowled, snagging Sam back into a headlock and applying a new round of noogie torture. “I am God’s gift to this _planet_ and especially to _you_!”

“Alright, then let’s get on with this, then,” Castiel said with a chuckle. Although Dean was trying to not laugh, it was hard because Sam’s hair was a wreck and his fuming as he tried to smooth it down was priceless. Castiel could almost see why Dean tormented Sam: he was adorable.

They talked for a while more about requirements, and Castiel set up a time to practice with the boys.

“Since it’s just practice, I’ll play the part of the priest,” he said easily.

“Play the _part_ of the priest?” Dean asked suddenly. “You _are_ a priest. Wouldn’t that just be you doing your job?”

Castiel smiled softly and pointed at the collar of his gray shirt. “I wear this as a deacon, not as a _priest_.” He canted his head slightly, feeling those vibrant green eyes narrow on him yet again, and he wondered if Dean Winchester was always so suspicious. “I am in training to be a priest.”

Uncomprehending looks.

Castiel sighed. “It takes years to become a priest. You don’t simply wake up one morning, decide on the vocation, slip on a collar, and get to take confessions.”

Sam nudged Dean in the ribs, getting his attention, and saying something with his eyes that only his brother understood. A slight tinge of red colored Dean’s ears and adding a glow of color to his cheeks, as he rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly and said, “I’m sorry. I figured… y’know...”

He waved his hand in the air, indicating the rectory, and Castiel nodded.

“It’s quite alright. Most parishioners merely assume I’m another priest, since I’m the first deacon Bishop Joshua has taken on in decades.”

It was right then that Sam’s stomach let out a tremendous growl that caused him to flush in embarrassment and Dean to look concerned. Castiel smiled at them, not sure he wanted them to leave yet, the charming Winchester boys, and said, “I have the ingredients to make sandwiches, if that’s amenable.”

Two sets of similar eyes looked at him in surprise and (in one case) a smidgen of suspicion, and he raised his hands in surrender against them. “I used to be a growing teenage boy. I am assuming it would at least last you until you get home for a proper meal.”

The boys exchanged looks, and whatever Dean read in Sam’s eyes was undermined by the unearthly set of whines Sam’s belly gave off. Castiel smiled.

“At the very least, I can make a grilled cheese sandwich.”

Dean nodded, and Castiel stood from behind his desk. He had been trying to keep as much distance between himself and the boys as possible, but although he could smell Dean faintly from that distance, passing him was like passing by a patisserie: his scent was fresh and warm and enticing. Castiel had to stop himself from leaning over and just scenting the boy, and it worried him.

He coughed to try and get the aroma out of his nose, leading them to the kitchen. “I’m going to find Father Joshua.”

Sam paused in the doorway, wide eyed, and asked, “I thought you were supposed to address him as ‘His Excellency’?”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “Indeed, you are absolutely correct, but His Most Reverend Excellency, Giosuè Ángeo, hates formality and will sulk for a day if you refer to him as such in an unofficial capacity such as dinner.”

“Well, call me whatever you want, but don’t call me late for dinner.”

Castiel whirled and found Father Joshua standing in the kitchen’s back entrance that led to the garden, with an oversized squash and an amused expression. Although Father Joshua was a bishop, he eschewed wearing the titles and the airs. _Humility_ , he taught, _was key to hearing God’s voice and love was how you understood His Word._

Despite his position, he called himself a simple gardener. Castiel loved it and him and was grateful that Father Joshua had chosen to mentor him.

But this moment, Joshua looked anything other than a man regularly called to the Vatican to speak to the Pontiff. He wasn’t very tall compared to the two other men in the kitchen, and his dark skin was weathered by sun and age. He was wearing mud-encrusted overalls with bright yellow Wellingtons, and an oversized straw sunhat, under which his dense hair was iron gray and cut very close to his scalp. The long-sleeved gray shirt, with his clerical collar in place, seemed at odds under the overalls and with his muddy, beige gardening gloves. He looked as if he had been rolling around in mud, and the cleaner-looking squash was what he’d found.

Castiel smiled at him and pointed at Joshua’s boots. “Shouldn’t you leave those outside? What’s the point of wearing them if you’re only going to track mud in?”

Joshua smiled, bright and innocent, and it shined from his dark face, belying his age. “You have a point. Here.” He tossed the squash to Castiel, who caught it awkwardly. “Gimme a minute. I’ll be right in.”

Castiel said, “Alright. Then I’ll start making the grilled cheese sandwiches.”

Joshua stopped and slowly looked over at the two boys and then at Castiel, his dark eyes narrowing. “Are...you making lunch?”

Castiel tried to avoid his gaze.

“I thought…” Joshua pointedly looked over at the boys.

Dean and Sam stared blankly back, not sure what the problem was, and Castiel said, firmly, “I’m making Croquet-monsieur! How hard can it be?”

Joshua eyed Castiel for a moment, and shook his head as he shucked off his wellies, “Perhaps I should pass on lunch…”

Castiel sighed. “It should be fine.”

Joshua put his wellies by the side of the door and padded inside, shaking his head in disbelief as he headed to the bedrooms. “You know, I think I’m going to head upstairs and take a quick shower. Don’t burn down the rectory.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Now it was Dean and Sam eyeing him narrowly, and Castiel blushed a bit.

“That’s...uh… I’ll just make lunch.”

The kitchen was large for the rectory, but it was occasionally used for larger projects, like making festive Christmas cookies to sell, dinners with parishioners, or the occasional charity event. The tile was a shiny eggshell white, while the walls were painted a pale amber, which, with the bright white cabinets and shiny stainless steel appliances, gave the room a cheerful feeling. The large oak table sat in the middle of the room with six roughhewn chairs, padded with light yellow pillows, and someone had put a large bouquet of wild sunflowers in a vase in the middle of it. The stove was gas and had a large hood over it to capture smoke.

The hood, to Castiel’s embarrassment, was newly installed from when Castiel had moved in, a donation from his family to the church. Joshua had laughed it off until Castiel tried to make dinner and burned it so badly they had to order out and repaint the kitchen walls.

So, although Castiel pulled a large non-stick pan from a cabinet with confidence and put it on the stove, he hesitated as he looked at the knobs.

As he stared, Dean asked warily from behind him, “Do you need some help?”

The thought of having the gorgeous Omega hovering over him sent a tremor of fear through the Alpha, and he shook his head briskly. “NO… n-no… I-I have it under control.”

“I bet.” The boys took a seat at the kitchen table, watching a nervous Castiel pull out bread, butter, ham, and cheese slices from the huge refrigerator.

Castiel turned the heat up to high, noting absently the way the flames engulfed and licked around the edges of the pan, flickering over the sides. He dropped a fat pat of butter onto the pan, which melted immediately and began to turn black.

Castiel grunted in consternation and tried to turn down the heat, but it was too late: the butter had already burned and there was thick smoke coming off the pan, setting off the rectory’s fire alarm. Grumbling, he pushed the pan onto another burner and turned on the hood’s fan.

He turned to open the door, only to find Dean in his way. The scent of caramel apples assaulted his nose and his inner Alpha jumped up and took notice. He took a panicked step back to escape, only to have Dean push him to the side with a brisk, “Careful!”

Castiel looked behind him and realized that he would have hit the stove with his rump, and probably set himself on fire because he hadn’t turned off the burner like a moron. He tried to calm his inner Alpha, who was again agitated that _~~his~~_ (no no no) _the_ Omega had pushed him. He grit his teeth and shuffled carefully around Dean, pulling out a broom from a dust closet, and shutting off the fire alarm with the end of the stick with practiced ease.

From behind him, there was a low cough, and he turned to find Dean trying to hide his amusement.

“Do you, uh, mind if I do it?” Dean motioned towards the stove, where he had already turned down the heat.

“Um, no. Please, go right ahead.” It really was for the best. He had never had to cook for himself before he had moved in with Joshua. Before that, he had lived in his parents’ mansion and someone had always cooked for him. It was one of the unconscious ways he had been privileged and he hadn’t realized it until he moved out. In the real world, wandering into the kitchen didn’t mean you automatically got fed.

Seated at the table and obviously amused at Castiel’s failure, Sam grinned and said, “Dean’s a really good cook!”

Castiel took a seat next to the boy and smiled. “I bet he is.”

But the reality was, indeed, Dean was an excellent cook. He moved with ease in the unfamiliar kitchen, cooking up the fancy grilled cheese sandwiches with the thin slices of ham in them and plating them with a small bowl of cream of tomato soup. He had found a couple of cans of it in the pantry and he had added some cream and a bit of dried basil and garlic powder to punch it up.

Although Dean’s skills were amazing, Castiel found he had a problem. Even though Castiel tried not to stare and the jean-clad ass—with the small worn holes where Dean kept his wallet, so much lighter in color at the seat—as Dean shifted from one side to the other, making food and plating things, it was _difficult_ to tear his eyes away. He couldn’t help but note that Dean had bowed legs and that his shoulders were mesmerizingly beautiful as the muscles shifted underneath his clothing. Castiel found his mouth watering, his eyes drawn to the lines of Dean’s neck as he stretched for things and his collar shifted, revealing the smooth tanned skin there.

Just above where Dean would someday get his mating mark.

 _Our_ mating mark, said some insidious voice in Castiel’s head. He violently shivered and ripped his eyes from the cooking Omega.

Not _his_. _He_ was destined to serve **God**.

That’s why when Sam asked him about Confession and forgiveness, Castiel was grateful there was something to keep his eyes away from the sight of that glorious ass.

## Joshua

Joshua came back down and found Castiel talking to Sam seriously and Dean finishing up his plating. He had changed into some dark-brown dress pants, and a clean but ugly blue sweater with bright geometric shapes that some parishioners said looked like he had been raiding Dr. Huxtable’s closet.

“I made enough for four, unless one of you is a bottomless pit like Sam here,” Dean said, setting plates in front of Castiel and where he presumed Joshua was going to sit.

Joshua sat down and eyed the young man efficiently handling the stove.

As a second-level Beta, Joshua had a better sense of smell than most betas, which really wasn’t saying much compared to an alpha’s or, even more so, an omega’s nose. Even his nose, however, was telling him that this was a high-level Omega. The scent of brown sugar and cotton wafted to him pleasantly, and he knew that for a second his eyes had glittered with Beta blue of recognition.

What he _didn't_ expect was the low, warning growl that escaped Castiel, who immediately looked mortified and repentant. As Joshua and Sam gave him twin surprised looks, the Omega had stopped mid-action and released his own small growl.

He whipped around and pointed his spatula sharply at Castiel, snarling, "You better not be growling over me, 'cause I don't belong to you or anyone and I never will!"

Joshua sat back in his seat, expression hooded as he observed the two. Castiel, who was generally considered unflappable, even robotic by a few detractors, was bright red and flustered, denying any intentions. Castiel, who was known to wade in first and without an issue into a sea of omegas in heat that would have driven other alphas mad, was acting volatile, and—even to Joshua’s inadequate Beta nose—the faint scent of distress, arousal, and nervousness was wafting off of him. The Omega smelled angry and on edge, but there was the faintest curl of arousal there too. If they weren’t fighting, Joshua wondered what they _would_ be up to...or maybe not. In a society where most people were null-betas who couldn’t scent anything but intense emotions like distress and arousal (if that), it was interesting that these two seemed to connect.

The Church, however, was immovable about mating. It was either take vows and be married to your job, or get mated and have a family. The two did not overlap.

Joshua was just going to have to observe this carefully.

While Joshua had been processing, Castiel had jumped up from his seat, saying, “I’m sorry! I don’t know what happened! I promise I meant no harm!”

The Omega snarled back, “How can I even trust you? You went all _wolfy_ the first time we met, and now you just _growled_ for some reason like you _own_ me?”

 _Went all wolfy?_ Joshua was vaguely shocked by the revelation. Castiel had never even _growled_ in his presence before today.

Abashed, Castiel hung his head, contrite. “I really don’t understand what happened. I had no control over it.”

The Omega (Dan? Dave?) snapped, “If you have no control over it, how am I supposed to trust you? We’re out of here! SAM!”

The young boy, who had been watching passively, sighed heavily and stood up. His sandwich was, at least, half eaten, and he looked sadly at the other half.

Joshua sighed himself, and put out his hands to stop them. “Castiel, resume your seat.”

He raised his dark eyes to Dean, who looked extremely angry and edgy but was waiting for his brother. “Young Omega, be at peace. It’s fine. Castiel has regained control of himself and he has realized what he’s done wrong, right?”

He eyes slid over to the panicking Castiel, and Castiel bit his lip and nodded slowly.

“I’m truly remorseful, Dean,” he said, sad and apologetic.

The young man, Dean, looked unconvinced, but then his little brother threw his own set of sad eyes into the mix, and he threw his hands up in frustration.

“Fine! I’m the bad guy!” He pointed at Castiel and snapped, “But you! You stay the hell away from me.”

As Joshua watched, the barest hint of red swirled through Castiel’s eyes as he scrutinized Dean’s finger pointing at him, but he swallowed hard and nodded agreement.

Joshua held back a chuckle, and waited for them to retake their seats before saying a brief prayer over their meal, this time the younger brother looking sheepish, as he had already eaten that half a sandwich. The meal went on quietly until Joshua asked, “So… Dean, is it? Yes? Well, why are you visiting our fair church?”

Castiel started to reply for the Omega until a steely set of eyes settled on him, and his mouth snapped shut with a click. Joshua noted that faint red swirl making yet another appearance, and his eyebrows bucked up with interest.

Even when Joshua had interviewed Castiel’s family about his temperament, they had all stated unanimously that Castiel rarely lost his temper and that they had never seen his Alpha appear other than during his ruts. A couple of his older brothers even said this with some measure of disgust, making Joshua think they had probably played pranks on the poor guy. So something about the Omega was hitting his buttons in a way that had never been seen before.

Dean recounted briefly about his brother’s interest in being an altar boy and that he was along for the ride and to keep an eye on Castiel, thanks to their near-violent first encounter. Joshua’s eyebrows arched up in surprise yet again, and he looked over to see Castiel looking positively miserable and guilty in his seat.

“Near violent..?” He directed this at Castiel, and Castiel squirmed.

“Uh… as you know… I _am_ a pureblood and…” Castiel’s eyes slid away and he definitely looked shifty.

“He nearly changed,” Sam supplied from the other end of the six-person table. His soup was nearly gone and the other half of his sandwich had already disappeared. “I totally thought he was going to jump my brother right there in front of the church.”

Castiel turned bright red and refused to look at anyone, his eyes glued to the table.

“He wasn’t jumping shit,” Dean grumbled under his breath, probably hoping the Beta’s hearing was not as good as it actually was. Joshua watched as Dean slid a half of his sandwich onto his little brother’s plate without a thought, the younger man beaming happily at his older brother. Their clothes indicated that they were not very well off, but getting by, and Sam, in particular, had a serious and studious air around him that boded well for his academic success.

Dean seemed much more practically minded, although thinking that a pureblooded Alpha like Castiel couldn’t pin him down and make him submit was rather naive. It was in an omega’s nature to bend before a powerful alpha, and Joshua suspected Castiel was probably incredibly powerful, even for a pureblood. Still, the fact the lad still managed to stand in front of Castiel’s display—when most omegas would have immediately presented—was fascinating.

No, they bore watching, these two. And, if the situation was as Joshua expected, then it was definitely a sign from God.

“So, Dean, what do you do?”

Oh, Dean’s face shuttered close, and his lips pressed together like he didn’t want to talk about it.

Joshua smiled to encourage him. The boy eyed him uncomfortably, shifting under Joshua’s attention.

Obviously carefully choosing his words, Dean replied, “I work maintenance at the trailer park and I work at a bar at night. Our Dad sends us money when he can.”

The young man was obviously hiding something. Joshua filed the information away. “And your father, where is he?”

“Our Dad’s a bounty hunter,” Sam piped up from across the room. “He’s trying to track someone down right now, so we’re on our own.” He paused to think for a moment, and he added, “Although Missouri does keep an eye on us, Dad decided Dean was old enough to take care of a place for a while.”

Joshua smiled. “I’m sure he’s right.”

They finished their meal, and Joshua moved to pick up the dishes. Dean had stood up to do it, but Joshua waved him down.

“I haven’t had such a pleasant meal in ages.” He smiled at the young man, who looked surprised at the compliment. “I can take care of the dishes and you can go back with Sam and Castiel.”

Dean looked somewhat unhappy at the prospect and he shifted on his feet uncomfortably, while Sam glued himself to Castiel and started asking questions about the Eucharist as they moved back to the office. Dean hesitated to follow and Joshua reached out, touching his arm gently to stop him.

Joshua smiled gently. “On second thought, perhaps you can help me out here in the kitchen. If you don’t mind?”

Dean looked pathetically grateful as he took to cleaning up the kitchen. There wasn’t a lot to clean, but from the look of it was better than being stuck with Castiel and Sam’s discussion of religion.

As he cleaned up, Joshua leaned against the counter, watching him. Joshua could tell he was making Dean nervous, since he was paying close attention to his body language and facial expressions. He had not, however, become the ear to one of the most powerful men on earth by ignoring how people reacted to things.

“Dean, how are you?”

Dean paused in his scrubbing out the soup pot to sigh heavily and turn a shuttered expression on Joshua. “Please, for the love of your God, PLEASE tell me this isn’t going to be one of those talks about feelings. I don’t _do_ those.”

Joshua smiled. “I wasn’t planning to. I was just observing that you get agitated about Castiel.” He chuckled lightly. “He’s actually telling you the truth, you know. He’s literally never reacted like that about anyone, ever.”

“Aren’t I the lucky one,” Dean snarked, leaning back over the pot and applying more elbow grease.

Joshua noted that, even if he was being verbally defensive, a blush had colored his cheeks, while a faintly confused scowl curled his brow. His body was stiff, angry, and his scent was muddled, like he wasn’t sure how to react and he didn’t like it.

Joshua smiled slyly for a moment, letting it slide away before Dean saw it, when he replied, “Perhaps you are. After all, the Lord —”

Dean stood ramrod straight—to Joshua’s surprise—and, with his hand covered in suds, pointed at Joshua, “So help me, if you say ‘mysterious ways,’ Bishop or not, I _will_ kick your ass.”

Joshua eyed the foam-covered finger pointed at him and burst out into hearty chuckles. “I see. Well, since it seems your relationship with God is rather strained, perhaps being an altar boy is not for you.”

He hummed in contemplation and asked, “Dean, how would you feel about helping out around the rectory while Sam is with Castiel?”

“I don’t know if I can trust that —”

Joshua put up to surrendering palms and said, “I promise you, Castiel will be on his best behavior. He’s a good fellow, if a bit… well, _dry_ , if you will. And you’ll be nearby so if Sam needs you, you can come running.”

Grass-green eyes narrowed skeptically. “So I can just help out and it doesn’t affect Sammy getting his altar boy badge or whatever?”

Joshua nodded with a smile. “Since you work maintenance at the trailer park, I’m going to guess you’re pretty handy. We could use that. I will, of course, pay a small sum for your assistance.” Dean opened his mouth to decline but Joshua shook his head. “No, appropriate compensation for your efforts is only expected. I won’t hear of anything else.”

Dean nodded. “Fine. While Sammy’s sorting out this God business, I’ll help out.”

Joshua clapped a hand on Dean’s shoulder, making the surprised Omega wince. “Wonderful! So once you’re done here, maybe you can look at the fan in my office. For some reason, when I pull the chain, it refuses to move.”

“I can do that.” Dean watched the older man walk out of the kitchen, a small, sly smile on his face, and he suspiciously murmured, “I can definitely do that.”

* * *

[1] Yeah, Holy Ghost, Father, Son; the predecessor to Jesus; the Virgin Mary. <\- not important

[2] Generally a string of beads set in a pattern of 10 small beads, 1 large bead, where the small ones are prayers to the Virgin Mary (Hail Mary) the big one is preceded by an Our Father and a ended on a Glory Be (prayers to God the Father and latter to the Holy Trinity: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit) and it's used to help count out the 5 decades of prayer typical for a full rosary; the reenactment or recitation of Jesus Christ’s arrest through resurrection; an affirmation/promise that you are a believer. <\- not important

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Worlding note: BETAS.  
> Null-betas are practically human. Their eyes don't change at all. They have no special senses. They have no superior strength. They rarely mate with anything other than another null because other bloodlines don't want to dilute their genes. They are the majority. 
> 
> Second-level Betas generally have better senses and strength, but sometimes genetics make it so it's specifically one thing that is amped up: smell, hearing, strength, so on. In those cases, the other senses are practically human weak. They tend to land in middle management because they have the best temperament to deal with it. 
> 
> First-level Betas are probably rarer than first-level Alphas because there's no real evolutionary advantage to it. They are basically false-alphas, without the knot and the hormone-driven body. I like to think of them as natural Spocks: calm, collected, until someone shatters their cool, and then [the beat is on.](http://i58.photobucket.com/albums/g246/sey115/khanscream_zpse75cd362.gif)


	4. You can have anything you want

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean hated this gig.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder: Capitalized Alpha/Beta/Omega is second-level or higher. Lower case alpha/beta/omega is third-level or in general.  
>    
>    
> I'm sorry. I struggled to make this work, and I almost gave up because... things. making sense. hard to do.
> 
> *sigh* So here it is, scars and all.
> 
> *whispers* But I'm VERY excited about ch 5. It's my favorite so far. ;)  
> OH, and shout out to my beta [ShippersList](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ShippersList/pseuds/ShippersList), who helps me beat these chapters into shape and [StKirsch](http://archiveofourown.org/users/StKirsch) who alphas for me. Thanks ladies!

When they returned home from the church, Dean made dinner, took a nap, and got up a few hours later to go to work. Sam watched him get ready with curious eyes, and, from his seat at the tiny kitchen table, asked, "Dean, which bar do you work at again?"

"I help out at HELL,” he replied slowly, avoiding Sam’s eyes by picking at a spot on his jeans. “It tends to get really full. The boss is a real hard ass.”

Sam hummed and asked, “But he’s letting an Omega work the bar...isn’t he worried about complications?”

Dean unintentionally snorted with derision. “Not really, Sammy. It’s fine.”

He pulled out a couple of packets of microwave popcorn from the cabinet, gifts from Joshua, and tossed them at his brother. “Don’t forget to finish your homework for tomorrow.”

Sam blew out a hard sigh, blowing up his bangs. “You can’t stay home tonight? I mean, it’s Thursday... how busy could a bar get on a Thursday?”

Dean looked at the still swaying bangs and said, “Man, I’m telling you—give me five minutes with some clippers…”

Sam threw a bitchface at him and he backed off, “Okay, alright! Yeah, I can’t, Sam. As much as I’d rather stay home to hold you down and rid you of that Guinea pig you got growing out of your skull, I gotta get the hours, just in case something happens.”

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, “Yeah, I mean, we can’t depend on Dad, so we better be sure we’re okay.”

Sam nodded sadly and bent back over the history book he was studying. He was trying to get ahead of the projects by doing research for his AP History class. He knew he’d have a paper due, and he wanted to make sure he wasn’t dying when he had to write it up.

Dean grabbed his keys, threw on his leather jacket, and walked over to ruffle Sam’s hair.

“Good night, little brother,” he said fondly as he started to walk out. “And _do not cook_. I expect to come back to an intact home. I left you some mac and cheese in the fridge if you get hungry!”

“You’re such a _jerk_ , Dean!”

“Bitch,” he snorted as he closed and locked the door behind him.

The drive over to Purgatory was not very far, but for some reason it had Dean thinking about Father Castiel. The first time they had met, he had been shocked/terrified by the presence of a pureblood. It was like accidentally walking into a yeti on the street, in his opinion. No one let a pureblood just... wander around and become a _priest_. Especially an admittedly hot one as Castiel was (seriously, calling him Father was just weird; it bordered on _kinky_ , for fuck’s sake), with his dark-blue eyes and mussed hair that looked like he had recently just fucked someone in the pews instead of coming from conducting mid-day mass.

But a pureblood was as rare as finding a pearl in an appetizer oyster. No one in his life had ever just _run_ _into_ _one_ in the street. He sure as hell had never expected to find one at a church in the suburbs. Even the two he _had_ met, both times had been under extremely sketchy circumstances at the brothel, and neither one of them hid the fact they were purebloods. Hell, they practically wore placards to make sure everyone knew they were _special_.

As a second-level, Dean had had the uncanny knack to run into quite a few second-levels, such as Bishop Joshua, someone he genuinely liked. He had also run into Meg, Ruby, Lilith, Crowley, and Benny at Purgatory. Of course, Lilith primarily worked the S&M room in HEAVEN, while Meg, Ruby, and Dean stayed in Purgatory with its exclusive patronage, since Crowley only employed second-levels for the brothel.

Not that it always worked in Crowley’s favor. As a group, the Purgatory Omegas were feisty and prone to retaliation. If pissed off enough, they closed ranks and were a handful. Crowley tried to avoid that: last time, he ended up losing money on clients _and_ having to up their percentages. It was bad for business. Crowley had grumbled about ‘modern-day Lysistrata,’ and just bowed to their whims, which that time was for longer breaks between customers.

But the Purgatory bunch had very little contact with the small cadre of third-level omegas Crowley employed upstairs. It wasn’t like Crowley threw holiday parties for his employees. So if the house omegas threw parties, they didn’t often invite the downstairs lot.

Still, those third-level house omegas were lucky. Crowley often adopted male omegas right off the street because they were the least wanted designation.

Third-level male omegas were null breeders: they were unable to conceive, which was all omegas were considered good for. They were the most often abandoned by families. And, even if all women could (potentially) conceive and carry, a second-level Beta female would always end up birthing early, and an alpha female, especially a pureblood, would always lose the battle between the genetics that wanted her to carry a litter, and evolution that would no longer allow her to survive carrying six to eight pups to term. Alpha female childbirth deaths were astronomical in comparison to other designations. So even if alpha females were rare, second-levels even rarer, they often decided to not breed because of those consequences.

It was a conundrum.

Regardless, third-level omega men were at the bottom of the gender totem pole, only good for a fuck and suck, possibly as a nanny or housemaid. Families were frequently eager to unload them, often into unsavory circumstances because it was dangerous to let them have jobs. They were often more petit and weaker than most designations. So third-level male omegas were the only ones that were considered chattel by the government, mostly for their own protection. Three out of five were often kidnapped by alphas, sometimes even betas, and their keepers needed the legal leverage to claim them back, even if a claiming bite was in place.

They were really the saddest of the bunch.

At HEAVEN, Crowley kept like twenty rotating third-level male omegas, who were _very_ well cared for in return for their complete willingness to do anything. He also kept a bevy of third-level omega females, because they were often abandoned when barren or, most often, when left pregnant and no one wanted to claim them. Those children were adopted out to infertile couples, which was often for the best, and, with nowhere to return, those female omegas stayed put.

The abandoned omegas were given the choice to stay and serve HEAVEN, or to pay off their initial (forged) ownership contract and leave. They could also have their contract (the cost of rent, upkeep, and other sundries) paid out by lovers. It wasn’t like they were trapped. But they were safe, they were warm and fed, and they were, for the most part, treated kindly.

It was better than trying to make it alone. The world was not kind to homeless omegas.

Even with all the third-level omegas that he kept, Crowley had still tried to convince another of the second-levels to move upstairs. None of them would do it: they all had too much personality to bend to just anyone’s will.

Also, third-level house omegas were _required_ to stay on the premises, help clean the building, help out with the advertising, and essentially work for their upkeep (they didn’t all have to prostitute themselves). For their own safety, Crowley allowed them out to the movies and such only when accompanied by two or more trusted alphas, like Benny, from his personal security force.

The second-levels would have murdered him in his sleep than succumb to being housebound.

Although Dean understood that third-level omegas were considered property to protect them, he himself couldn’t have lived like that, forced into a confined living space with that many other omegas. He knew most omegas liked being around other omegas, as it gave them a sense of safety and comfort.

Not Dean.

He had grown up with a grumpy, alcoholic alpha dad and the smell of leather in his nose. Like now, he had the windows open, Guns N Roses’ “Sweet Child of Mine” burning through his speakers, and his Baby purring underneath him. He was lucky he had been born with the second-level gene; he would have died _just_ being an omega. As it was, he was expected to mate soon. Most second-level Omegas were mated by 20 to make sure they were able to conceive and birth as many children as possible. Dean wanted to make sure he was not one of those statistics: he refused to be a mated Omega.

Mating was for suckers and simps.

Which took him back to the _very_ hot and _very_ possessive Castiel.

The two times he had met the guy, he had acted all Meta-Alpha on him. Dean knew that he was a good-looking guy (he had a mirror), but that sort of behavior made him feel out of sorts. He refused to just present for any knothead that tried to dominate him!

But… Cas smelled _nice_. If Dean was being honest, Cas smelled like apple pie and linen and the smell of rain after a long drought, all scents that made him yearn for home. He smelled, well, like _mate_. Cas was a priest-to-be, though, so that idea was just ludicrous. A priest couldn’t be someone’s _mate_ , especially a prostitute Omega male’s.

_Forget about how good he smelled. He’s not for you._

Besides, Dean was just peachy without a mate. Just perfect. Awesome even.

Tired of mulling over his thoughts, he thankfully pulled into the employee parking lot, locked up, and trailed his hand across Baby’s trunk lovingly as he walked towards the side of the building. He looked over towards the front doors and, sure enough, for a Thursday, the line to get into HELL was still around the corner. Dean had no idea how Crowley pulled them in, but they were like koi competing for food at a pond.

Dean took the backstairs and sighed as he crept into the shadowy back halls of Purgatory, his head down. When he came to a wide space with dark-green velvet couches and fine polished wood floors, he had made it to the brothel. A sign behind the front desk said ‘Purgatory’ in a golden script, while the lovely beta receptionist, Laura, worked on something on the computer.

With a wave of his hand, Dean greeted the front desk and bouncer, who both nodded at him, and he slipped between the dark green velvet-padded doors with dark silver-button embellishments as the long buzz of released locks let him in. In the room’s deliberate darkness, the window—where Garth sat and kept track of who was in-house, who was busy, and scheduled appointments—was bright.

“Hey, Garth,” he greeted as he headed up the sweeping stairway to the second floor. The brothel area was a split-level to keep things under control. The first level was administration and where most of the omegas Crowley kept were housed, with one door in and out. The upper level was for the Omegas who could handle themselves. They essentially rented their own room, the payment coming from their wages. Crowley controlled everything else, making it the safest place in the building for omegas: no weapons allowed on premises and only designated people behind Garth’s window, where the omega dorm’s doorway was hidden.

At least it kept Garth trapped behind the glass and on the phone, something Dean was grateful for, since the strange skinny guy liked to hug people. It was annoying, but, again, most omegas loved touch and comfort. The beta was smart, but easygoing, and he listened if an omega had a problem. He was a good choice for guardian.

Benny was sitting on a tall stool outside the doors, burly and furry in dark jeans and a black t-shirt. He looked up from his skin mag to smile. “Hey, brother! Thought you were going to be late!”

When they first met, the Cajun twang of his accent had amused Dean to no end, and it was by hanging out between clients or, very rarely, afterwards with a bottle of brew that they grew to be friends. Dean wasn’t legal, but who’s going to deny a second-level Alpha? But he liked Benny because he never judged him. He knew Dean was doing what he had to to survive.

“I am nowhere near late,” he replied, slapping the big bear of an Alpha on the shoulder. “How’s tricks?”

“Slow tonight, brother,” he said with a nod. “Himself is in a snit. Might make one of you birds go upstairs and babysit the even richer.”

“Aw, shit,” Dean muttered under his breath. Babysitting meant playing waiter and occasionally allowing people to pet him like a cat. He hated that gig.

He turned to walk down the hall, his head low, but apparently it wasn’t low enough and, really, god hated him.

“Well, if it isn’t my little Ken doll, fresh out of the packaging and ready to play house.” The British drawl made Dean cringe and he reluctantly stopped and turned around.

 _Double aw shit_. “Crowley… how are you doing tonight?”

Crowley was a shorter, stocky man, who preferred to dress in snappy suits. His suit tonight was a pinstriped dark charcoal with matching charcoal gray shirt and a blood-red tie. His brown eyes were furtively intelligent, and he was the most manipulative creature Dean had ever met.

“Ah, yes, well, here’s the thing. Things are slow down here, and I have new customers upstairs. A second-level Omega like you is sure to be a treat for the lads. I need you to head upstairs and hustle for me.”

“I don’t work upstairs,” Dean replied. He pointed at his clothing, which, at best, could be called casual wear. “I don’t have the clothes for it.”

Crowley smiled, and it was a nasty, Grinch-envisioning smile that curled dread through Dean’s stomach. “No worries, Squirrel! I’ve got something _all_ picked out for you.”

Dean caught Benny’s eye with a pleading look, but the traitor just shrugged.

That was how Dean found himself in black leather pants and a tuxedo vest, with the requisite collar with a bow tie attached.

“I feel like a damn stripper,” he muttered under his breath. “What is this, Magic Mike?”

“Compared to downstairs where you just look like a proper rent-boy?” Crowley snidely remarked, eyeing Dean carefully. “Nice. Very nice,” he said, walking around Dean slowly. “Ass hugging. Perfect.

“My ass? Yeah, I know it is,” he joked with a shit-eating grin. Crowley leveled his eyes on said ass, and Dean shivered. He suddenly wanted to cross his arms over his chest and tell Crowley to stop objectifying him: those creepy brown eyes were practically calculating how much every inch of his butt was worth.

He decided to ignore it and asked, “Whose clothes are these anyway?”

Crowley shifted and grinned winningly, slapping him on the ass. “Don’t worry yer pretty little head over that. Smart-looking bird like you… we’ll make a fine killing tonight! Got some real big fish from St. Louis who are doing business in Kansas City and apparently heard that we were the place to visit.” He stepped in closely, reeking of cigars and Beta. “I mean it, green eyes. Reel them in. I want some fat fish for my supper, and yer my bait.”

Dean huffed and pushed away from his overbearing boss, straightening his faux tie with one hand and picking up his drink tray with the other. “You have like twenty omegas out there, and you’re going to make _me_ do all the work? If I reel them in, I get forty percent.”

Sherry brown eyes widened marginally with disbelief. “Are ye trying to play me, little Omega?”

Dean smirked. “Just know that I can do it, and you need to pay me accordingly.”

Crowley hummed and eyed the Omega. “Thirty. Not a cent more.”

“And I keep my tips?”

Crowley waved his hand dismissively. “Fine, fine! Keep yer tips. Let’s just see if yer bite is as good as that bark of yours.”

Dean grinned. “Oh don’t worry about that…”

* * *

If HELL was a dingy bar with a stage and dance floor, and Purgatory looked like a fancy 19th Century hotel with crushed velvet wallpaper and matching couches in the lobby, then HEAVEN was all dark blue carpeting and baby-blue, overstuffed chairs. There were white curtains around a few of the couches, if privacy was desired, and cubby holes for alphas needing a _lot_ of privacy.

The only two rooms that were permanently set aside were Lilith’s SMBD boudoir—because moving all the pieces for a scene was a hassle—and the party room, where a large group of associated alphas (and sometimes betas) could party to their hearts’ content.

For an ungodly amount of money, the party room could be rented, complete with stripper poles set up on different ends, and a large disco ball in the middle. If the party goers so desired, they could change the lighting so it was dark with colored lights fragmenting off the disco ball. Crowley had even set up a Japanese-style karaoke, so they could sing to their drunken gratification. The huge black overstuffed couches in the room could be used as beds and the small glass tables generally held drinks, but were known to hold everything from candy to illicit drugs. The specialized hookah pipes had been installed into each end of the couches for easy reach. There was even a small private bar set up with only the highest-quality beverages and a selection of Slick.

This was what Dean was sent in to man. He had two jobs: take drink and Slick orders, and keep them happy by providing whatever else they wanted. Nothing more. No sex. It wasn’t on the table for him tonight.

Thank god or whoever was listening.

The bartender for the private bar was a slim, tall beta he knew as Jake, who was assigned the room because he looked pretty harmless, but he was actually as strong as most alphas. He helped keep the room in order. He was also a nice guy.

“Hey, Jake. How's it looking?" He dropped the serving tray onto the bar to be filled.

Jake looked up from the glasses he was washing, his eyebrows jumping up into his hairline in surprise. "Well, if it isn't his nibs! Finally joining us on the Perch!"

Dean cringed at the nickname. HEAVEN was called ‘the Perch’ by the outside workers because of all the omegas Crowley kept and at how they were treated like fine birds in a cage.

"Crowley forced me. But I got 30% plus tips out of him!"

Jake’s eyes widened with disbelief and he shook his head. "I bet you didn't think through the terms. Crowley's not letting that kind of cash slip through his fingers lightly."

Dean grinned and leaned on the bar. “He needs them to be return customers. He wants me to charm them.”

Jake leveled a look at him and said, “You do realize that, if they come back, they’re going to ask for you, and you’ll have to come up here and get your usual percentage. You didn’t finagle that as a permanent amount.”

This was true. Dean wanted to slap himself for conceding so quickly.

He huffed, “Yeah, well… you’re an ass.”

Jake just smiled serenely at him, eyed the screen where the orders popped up, and poured out four top-shelf bourbons, an ounce of Slick #34, and placed them on the tray.

“Here. Shake your tail feathers and make us some dough.”

Dean scowled at him, but obediently picked up the tray and swaggered his way from the bar towards the people seated on the couches, watching two glittering omegas in white bikini bottoms with fake wings dance against the poles. One was a blonde female who was covered in golden body glitter; the other was a dark-haired male in booty shorts and sprayed down in silver body glitter. They were the two top dancers among the house omegas, and it showed with their sensual and frankly acrobatic performance.

There were four alphas lounging on the couches, a bevy of omegas swarming over them, giving them massages, complimenting their looks. One of the alphas was dark haired and lean looking, his eyes a nice blue hazel, who was speaking to an older, balding alpha who was not aging well, the bags under his eyes and the weaselly expression on his face genuinely unappealing. There was an alpha with chestnut blonde hair and cold eyes, her nails perfectly manicured, looking out of place in her very expensive-looking business suit, and she was watching the pole dancers like she wanted to skin them. To her side was handsome blond alpha in a V-neck shirt, dark jeans, and snake-skin boots who leered at the dancers, while keeping one of the young male omegas in his lap, his hand roaming over the young man’s waist and legs. Dean was pretty sure the omega’s name was Kenny. Maybe… Lenny?

Whatever. The brown-haired omega was leaning into the touch, nearly purring, while the alpha mostly watched the two dancers.

 _Showtime_. Dean plastered on his pleasant face, smiling winningly at them. “Hello! I am your server for tonight, Rocky!”

That last part burned him to say, fuck Crowley and his nicknames anyway. Seriously, which part of him looked like a damn cartoon flying squirrel?

They all looked up at him, the males with lascivious eyes, the female with something just below contempt but not quite hate.

“Well, _hello nurse_ ,” murmured the blonde guy. He flicked his ice blue eyes over Dean’s body, leering as he eyed over the black leather pants. He unceremoniously pushed the purring omega off his lap, who landed with a grunt and swung angry eyes at Dean. Like it was _Dean’s_ fault the asshat alpha had knocked him on his ass.

The blond reached out and grabbed Dean’s hand, sniffing his wrist. Dean grit his teeth and let him, grateful he had used scent blockers (although they eventually got weaker at the wrist and neck), but between his clenched teeth said, “Sir, I am here to serve you in all ways but sexually. If I am serving sexually, who would make sure you have drinks and fun?”

The blond hummed appreciatively at Dean’s scent and pressed a small kiss into his pulse point, winking up at him. “I think I could make do, but I’m sure my fellows would kill me.”

The female coolly replied, “I’d merely have you thrown from the establishment, Balthazar. I want my drinks promptly brought to me, something that won’t happen if you keep your grubby hands on him.”

Balthazar, Dean noted, was not at all abashed. “Naomi, sweetheart, you’ve never stooped to having anyone do anything for you. Isn’t that why you married another alpha? To get ahead?”

Her slate gray eyes raked over the man, and it was almost like hearing nails on a chalkboard, it was so visceral. Without a single trace of emotion, she said, “Balthazar, you’re getting in the way of my getting my drink. Keep it up, and I’ll fuck you in the corner like the little bitch you are.”

They glared at each other for a moment, and Dean was getting worried they were going to have to call security, when a smooth voice interrupted with, “ _I’m_ here to have fun, you two. If you’re going to get in the way of my good time, I’m going to have you _both_ removed.”

Dean flicked his eyes over to the dark-haired alpha, who was smiling pleasantly at him. “Go on, little omega. They won’t get in your way, right?”

Both Balthazar and the female averted their eyes and just allowed Dean to serve them their drinks. _Crisis averted. Thank god._

But even as Dean set the drinks carefully onto the table, he realized the dark-haired alpha was watching him with hot eyes and a predatory gleam. He stifled his sigh, and, pulling a fancy red silk handkerchief from his pocket, he put down the tray and presented the tiny bottle of slick. “Alpha, I present to you the house special, O34, one of our best.”

The balding guy grinned and reached for it, immediately setting up the hookah to his right so he could share with the dark-haired alpha. The dark-haired guy kept those predatory eyes on Dean, making him nervous. He couldn’t stifle his tense jump when the man slipped out his own handkerchief and delicately licked it, taking Dean’s hand and using the damp spot to rub over the spot Balthazar had kissed. Frozen to the spot, Dean watched the man carefully put the cloth away and lewdly sniff along Dean’s wrist and even pulled him closer to take a whiff at the crease of his elbow. It was unnerving and he did, at least, manage to stifle a squeak. If he hadn’t been at work, he probably would have decked the guy.

But those blue-gray hazel eyes glittered alpha red so deeply and brightly that Dean almost immediately knew he was dealing with at least a second-level Alpha.

“My name is Michael Novak, CEO of Celestials Inc. And you are?”

_Novak? Why does that sound familiar?_

Dean shrugged it off and tried not to roll his eyes. “Yes, sir. As I said before, Rocky.” He used the moment to pull his hand out of the Alpha’s grip and pointed at the gold badge on his vest that said in square letters “ROCKY.”

Michael smirked at him and shook his head. “You don’t _look_ like a Rocky to me.”

Smiling gamely while stepping out of reach, Dean said, “Sir, is there anything else I can get you?”

With flirtatious wink and a smile, he quipped, “Your name and phone number?”

It was getting annoying. Smiling tightly, Dean nodded in an 'yeah, got it' way. “Alpha, as you know, you can order drinks, Slick, and even food and omegas though your tabletop kiosk. I’ll go fetch some more bourbon for you.” He bowed his head and got the fuck out of there, ignoring the bald alpha’s whispered, “Cheeky little shit, isn’t he?”

Dean didn’t give a fuck. Work and private life were two very separate things and he planned to keep them that way. Bastards.

* * *

The next three hours passed with a moderate amount of harassment. His ass was groped a couple of times, his crotch grabbed once. He was forced to sit in Michael’s lap once, tugged down by his belt, and just… fondled all over.

He had escaped back to the bar and an amused Jake, panting with exhaustion. “Fucking hell, I should have pushed for forty-percent! These guys are animals!”

Jake chuckled. “Well, baldy has passed out on O34, while the blond dude has been slowly fucking that omega he picked up earlier over in the corner of the far couch.” He squinted at the couch. “The female has been just watching everyone and drinking. It’s not even affecting her.” He frowned. “I mean, why bother coming if it doesn’t affect you and you aren’t having fun?”

Dean shrugged. Indeed, the woman had been just sitting primly all night, watching her companions make fools of themselves.

The smell of bamboo and the ocean snaked around him, and he wasn’t surprised when he turned to find Michael leaning up against the bar next to him, smiling woozily. The hazel in Michael’s eyes was gone, leaving only swirling alpha red, and even that was a thin band around the darkness of his blown pupils. Not only high on Slick, Dean noted warily, but also fucking drunk, if the dark flush of color over the man’s cheeks and neck were any indication.

Dean was surprised to see the man even moving, since Slick smoked in a hookah made alphas sleepy and relaxed, like after a good fuck. The alcohol should have made the drowsiness worse, but no, apparently not Michael. Here he was, back to harass Dean.

Smothering his desire to growl at the man (and maybe break his nose), Dean grimaced at being trapped between the guy’s arms as Michael shifted and moved into his personal space, bracketing him. It forced Dean to lean back against the bar to keep his space and made the smooth wood of the bar dig into his back as Michael leaned in close, stinking of arousal.

“Such a beautiful omega,” Michael murmured, his hand not the graceful swan he thought it was as he reached limply for Dean’s face to stroke it.

Disgust roiled through Dean, but he was a _professional_. If his scent blockers had completely worn off, Michael would have noticed the aggravation and revulsion churning through his scent and called him on it. Thankfully, the blockers were still holding strong, not revealing a thing. It probably didn’t matter, though. Michael was out of it (thank god), and as an apparent CEO (whatever) and Alpha, he was used to getting his way. Dean’s repulsion would more likely be a turn on.

Dean doubted Michael heard “no” very often.

Regardless, that didn’t mean that when the man trapped him, Dean didn’t get angry. Because he was seriously pissed. _This_ was why the second-levels didn’t work upstairs; they lacked subservience for it. Unlike HEAVEN, _they_ chose their repeat clients, and _they_ controlled the atmosphere, the room, and the touching.

But he was a _professional_ , damn it. So even if Dean was ready beat the man into a pulp, he just couldn’t outwardly _show_ it.

He tolerated the groping ( _fucker, my crotch is **not** a squeeze toy_ ) until the Alpha pulled Dean close and slid his nose into Dean’s collar, taking long sniffs there. Dean threw Jake an annoyed look and waved for a bit of help before he gave into the urge to knee the man and crush his junk.

Jake nodded and came around the bar to pry the inebriated man off Dean, even as Michael wrapped his arms around Dean even tighter.

“God, smells so good,” Michael mumbled against Dean’s neck, nosing at his jaw, his body heavy on Dean.

Dean was relieved when a light snore whistled against his neck as the Alpha had finally passed _out_.

“Yeah, yeah, man. You sleep that off.” Dean grimaced as the Alpha was summarily plucked off him before he could wake up and make good use of his Alpha strength.

Dean shivered and rubbed his hand where Michael had been sniffing, annoyance and a tinge of fear coloring the movement. He was used to handsy alphas downstairs, but he could fight if he needed to in Purgatory. In HEAVEN, he wasn’t allowed to fight. The customers were too well off; the money just too good.

Dean watched Jake haul Michael over to the couches. The female intercepted Jake’s dropping the Alpha onto the couches, and said something to Jake that Dean couldn’t hear. Jake nodded and the woman poked baldy with a sharp polished nail. The balding dude snorted and sat up, the hookah mouthpiece falling from his slack lips with a rivulet of drool. She pointed at Michael, and, although baldy grimaced and yawned, he got off his ass and took the man with ease.

She stabbed Balthazar in the naked ass with her nails, causing him to howl and slide out of his chosen omega, even as the kid scrambled out of the way of the now-snarling alpha and the cold woman staring at them. But it didn’t come to down to a fight. She pointed at the sleeping Alpha being carried out, and the guy swore, nodded, and got dressed in a hurry. He scuttled after her as the sound of her stilettos clicked down the hall, and as he slipped through the door, he winked and waved at the stunned brown-haired omega he had just been fucking.

Along with bruises from the constant groping, they had given Dean a hefty $5000 tip, which Dean was going to stash away immediately for Sam’s college fund. It was the biggest haul he’d had in his life, but he wasn’t sure it was enough compensation for being constantly fondled.

Jake pocketed his own fat tip, moving to the side as the omegas on cleaning duty worked around him. Exhausted, everyone dragged themselves downstairs and home, unaware of the night’s consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hookahs can be set up with vaporizers to smoke liquids. Shisha soaked in certain slick instead of honey or molasses is also available if ordered ahead of time, because only some is available all the time.
> 
>  **Omegas** : The higher the omega’s level, the stronger their personality. This means that a third-level omega generally is content to be kept because they feel safe. It doesn’t mean they can’t study or do things, but that they are generally physically weaker than alphas. Generally speaking, they are cleverer than alphas and more empathetic than betas. But because third-level alphas are stronger, they tend to abuse third-levels. Alphas forget that omegas are extremely clever to make up for their size and lack of strength. REMINDER: Third-level males cannot breed. Only female omegas can, but third-levels will only birth third-level children (alpha/beta/omega) because their ability to pass on dominant genes are the weakest of the breeding designations.
> 
> Second-level Omegas are feisty because they have the physical strength to back it up. They are not as strong as second-level Alphas or purebloods, but they won’t be easily won. They are desired for their strong genetics and abilities to pass on dominate genetics AND have multiple children. They typically will have two to three to a pregnancy, IF they can be convinced to mate.
> 
> Pureblood Omegas are strong-willed as hell. They have the physical strength to take on 2nd and 3rd level alphas, so they do whatever they want. They are not easily claimed (or sold off), so alphas need to win them or be their true mate. That is a one-in-a-million shot, though, so the few pureblood Omegas in the world run their own businesses and compete with the big boys. They give no shits about societal norms for the most part, but tend to be treated like society's darling. They are able to produce pureblood and second-level off-spring, possibly as many as six to a pregnancy, although they typically have triplets. IF you can mate them. **IF.**


	5. The constant struggle ensures my insanity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel is losing his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Reminder** : Capitalized Alpha/Beta/Omega is second-level or higher. Lower case alpha/beta/omega is third-level or in general.
> 
>  Artwork by [Cinensis](http://Cinensis.tumblr.com)! Stop by and say hi to her!
> 
> [The title is from Tricky's "Hell Is Around the Corner"](https://youtu.be/E3R_3h6zQEs)
> 
> This _should_ be the last chapter with like... long descriptions of how the "world" works. You're pretty much home free from it. If you want to keep up with my progress (or read any drabbles I'm writing because my poetry class is dullsville) [check out my writing blog (it's NEW!). ](http://naoefanfics.tumblr.com)
> 
> ALSO! Happy Valentine's. This is posted a tad early so I can get in my love first. No sloppy seconds for me!
> 
>  
> 
>  **Alb** : Altar servers are supposed to wear robe-like garments over their clothes while serving. They are called albs. I’ve just called them robes my entire life and did not know this til now. Well the white bits of robe are call albs. The colorful priestly bits over them are called other things, depending on who’s giving mass (oh the levels) and what season it is. Yes. Really.

Castiel really liked Sam.

Sam was a mid-sized sponge for knowledge, eating up everything that Castiel taught him with a voracity that somehow humbled Castiel. He asked key questions, researched answers, and debating with him was always lively. It was, to Castiel’s surprise, fun.

It was all made easier to enjoy with Joshua’s using Dean’s skills as a handyman. The young Omega was extremely clever with his hands, something Sam collaborated when he said Dean also worked for the trailer park whenever there was some sort of problem, from a broken awning to a satellite dish falling off. Dean apparently fixed it all and they received a small discount on their rent plus a little cash for food.

Of course, because Dean was a charmer, many of the women in the park couldn’t help but want to mother the parentless omega and his little brother, so sometimes Dean even scored a lasagna or, if he was super lucky, pie.

Or so Sam reported one day, when they caught Dean fussing with an old leaf blower that had been donated to the church. It was fairly new, the previous owner said, but just sort of grumbled and died when someone tried to start it. They hoped someone might be able to fix it and sell it for charity. Until Dean came along, the thing had sat in the back of the garage, occasionally pulled out for charity sales, but never sold.

“Dean is very handy,” Sam said, watching his brother strip the outer casing and blow into the guts, making black particles fly. “Our Uncle Bobby showed him a lot, but he’s always been smart like that.”

Castiel half-heard what Sam said, because he was _not_ staring at those at those puckered lips, the way Dean’s breath was vaguely pluming the autumn air. He was not imagining those warm lips against his own. He was _not_.

He was stumbling through the Lord’s Prayer, praying for strength, when Dean squinted into the engine and licked his lips, the tiny flicker of tongue like a dagger to Castiel’s resolve.

Castiel turned around quickly, feeling flushed and hot, his pants getting uncomfortable, and stuttered, “S-Sam… I-I-I’ll meet you i-in the office.”

If he scurried away like a coward, well, so be it. But Castiel had discovered even the tiniest trickle of sweat from Dean’s brow was maddening. How it wound its way down the curve of his face, making its way along the edge of his jaw, and dropping down to earth mesmerized Castiel in unhealthy ways. That sweat… how salty would it be against Castiel’s tongue? Would it be the flavor of salted caramel? Would it?

_Would it?_

* * *

 

Joshua was getting suspicious.

“Did you buy all this salted caramel for a reason or..?” Joshua lifted the large box off the office desk and raised an eyebrow.

Flustered, Castiel flailed off his seat and awkwardly snagged the box away.

“I had a craving,” he muttered, knowing full well that his face was bright red to his ears.

“A craving?”

Castiel nodded and then, for the first time in his life, wanted to die when Joshua smirked at him and walked away. He _smirked_. At HIM.

Sullenly, he took his candy with him to his room and stayed there for the rest of the night.

He may or may not have masturbated while chewing on caramels, but if he _did,_ perhaps he _might have_ made his way to the neighboring dioceses to go to confession.

Maybe.

In early November, Castiel had managed to keep away from Dean for the most part thanks to Joshua having him working on the Car. The Car was an old Studebaker Lark that Joshua had brought with him when he took the position. But there was no money for the upkeep on an extra car, since Joshua’s promotion to bishop meant he not only got his predecessor’s home, but his brand-new car, donated from a wealthy family. He had just left the less-gas-efficient Studebaker in the garage and used the small Toyota.

But one day Joshua had wanted to use the Studebaker and it wouldn’t start. Neither he nor Castiel were mechanically inclined, so the old girl had been left in the garage to rot.

Until now.

Now, once a week, Dean was under the old girl for two hours at a time, changing out belts and timers, removing rust from the body and replacing the bald tires with newer ones. There was a lot of noise in the garage now, which was tolerable as long as Castiel and Sam practiced in the church. It also saved Castiel from staring, saliva pooling in his mouth for no reason, all while his brain tried to keep up and suppress his Alpha’s instincts.

Today, Dean had peeled off to work on the car the moment they showed up, leaving Sam to barge into the rectory, excited to start practice. Sam was making his big debut Sunday and he didn’t want to make a mistake.

Sam was talking fast, ridiculously fast, as they walked to the church in the November weather. “Can I try on the alb? To get used to it? Can I?”

Castiel nodded. “You know where they are, right?”

Sam grinned and took off.

Castiel shouted, “No running!” But it was too late. The child was built like a giraffe, all legs and arms, and he moved fast, once he picked up speed.

Sighing, Castiel reached into his jacket pocket to find his cell phone, but a hurried patting of his pockets proved futile. He must’ve left it in the office.

He walked out of the church and back towards the rectory, and, as he reached the door, the smell of horny and angry alphas struck his nose. It worried him because it was wafting from where the garage was, and Dean was alone.

Castiel scowled as his Alpha roared inside him, demanding to be let out and make sure _their_ Omega was safe. It strained at the imposed limits, snapping and frothing to get free.

With iron resolve to keep it together no matter what, Castiel started walking the ten feet to the garage just as a lot of yelling broke out.

“Just fucking _present_ , bitch! You need lessons on your place in this world?”

“If I need to learn something, I’m pretty fucking sure you’re not the one to teach me.” Dean’s voice was light, jovial almost. “Alphas like you are a dime a dozen, plain old third-levels thinking that, just because they got the alpha gene, they can bully the rest.” Castiel froze as Dean chuckled darkly. “Well, fuck that and fuck you. Now go away; I’ve got shit to do.”

Castiel scooted over and looked around the corner of the rectory towards the garage. Standing in the driveway, Dean was wearing a pine-green Henley that was faded and worn to holes at the cuffs and neck over what looked like a black t-shirt and already ruined jeans. The weather was brisk, especially as evening approached, but Dean didn’t look cold. He looked _calm_. He was evenly wiping his palms with a filthy rag as three young alphas around his age snarled and half-circled him, their eyes alpha red and their erections obvious in their pants. The thick smell of _wrong_ swirled off of them, the stink underlying their alpha scents, fat and oily like patchouli. They were probably from the nearby high school, all three dressed too lightly for the brisk early November air, but they didn’t seem to notice.

“You talk pretty tough for a little bitch,” one of them snapped, his blond hair shorn short to his head, his shoulders blocky and heavy with muscle under his grey hoodie. He was holding back another alpha, this one actually foaming at the mouth, his eyes glowing red as well, and his entire focus on Dean. He was at least three inches taller than Dean, and built like a linebacker. The last was a lean alpha, all limbs and acne. He was holding it together better, mostly just breathing heavily, shifting on his feet, and clenching his hands repeatedly.

Watching them for a moment, Castiel realized they were high on something. From their frenzied appearance, the oily edge to their stench, the excessive drool, and the near frantic desire to have sex with someone, Castiel had to figure on ‘Heat,’ the street version of synthesized Slick for medical use, the concentrated pheromone put in ampules like ammonia.

Generally, the medically-prescribed poppers were used for erectile dysfunction in aging alphas, who needed a kick to their libido. The labs had basically taken the strongest aromatic pheromone notes of Slick—without a specific musk signature—and put into ampules that the alpha would pop between their fingertips, and—as the oil saturated the cotton around the tiny ampule—they would take a long, hard sniff. That’s when the pheromones would trick their brains into thinking ‘heat,’ and more so 'bond mate' in order to fill the hole in the scent signature with whatever musk was closest.

So it was like fooling the alpha’s brain thinking their ‘bond mate’ was in ‘heat.’

It also gave them a small high that partially eroded the alpha’s ability to function past wanting to knot the nearest body as their ‘bond mate.’ If they tried to overdose, they’d end up in pain, suffering an unending erection that needed hospitalization because the body was not meant to lose all it blood for that long, and six-hours was quite a long time to hold it all in one very inconvenient place.

Still that small high, that ‘lust’ they experienced just was not enough that they rampaged, looking to rape people.

No, that was the issue with ‘Heat’: the chemically manipulated, higher concentration of pheromones were addictive and immediately forced the alpha into a false rut. The feeling was a wild and instant high that supposedly felt like the brink of an orgasm _if only they could knot someone and complete the urge to breed._

The longer Heat was used, however, the less effective it was, but the addiction stayed with them. It sometimes was so bad, an addicted alpha could pine and die because nothing could curb their urges anymore.

Castiel had mostly seen the burnout phase, where alphas had been hooked on Heat too long and they lost their ability to function without it, a burnt out husk without natural pheromones or mind. But he had never seen someone recently high on it. It was new. It was disturbing.

They were trying to rape _his_ Omega. Trying to hurt _Dean_.

He felt the change creeping along his spine, trying to escape his control, his fangs elongating and biting into his lip.

 _His_ Omega.

Castiel started forward, anger burning righteously up and down his nervous system, his fingers already changing to claws, but he didn’t reckon on one thing: Dean was no ordinary Omega.

Dean was Dean.

Even as Castiel started to move, Dean shook his head at the strange alphas, looking down at his hands, with a small smile on his face as he sighed. He lifted his chin, and Castiel paused for a moment, holding back a gasp at how beautiful he was with the sunlight gilding him. Those green eyes glittered in the setting sun as Dean muttered, “Idiots.”

The first thing that happened was the black oily cloth was suddenly in the leader’s face, stuck there with all the oil that Dean had been using it to wipe up. There was a small gasp from the surprised blond, and he automatically grabbed for the sticky fabric, as Dean followed up the cloth with a heavy right cross to the jaw that knocked the guy on the ground with enough force to bounce his head against the concrete. He groaned but he didn’t move.

But it didn’t matter, because Dean twisted and gave the frothing one a punishing left hook, followed by a kick to the gut in quick succession. The frother curled into his heaving belly, at which point the scrawny one got with the program and made a run at Dean.

Dean pinpointed a heavy right hook up into the guy’s chin and, from his hiding place, Castiel could see it connected solidly, the young man’s eyes rolling up into his head til they were white as he flew backwards from the impact, his feet leaving the ground for a moment with the strength of it. He landed with fleshy thump on the driveway.

By then, the frother was up, snarling again, and running his huge body at Dean, obviously out of control now. Dean smoothly side-stepped his charge, leaving out a foot for the guy to trip over.

Castiel echoed Dean’s grimace of pain as the guy couldn’t stop the momentum of his charge and impacted head first into the Studebaker’s 1959 solid metal body with an extremely loud thunk, sliding unconscious to the ground to bleed there.

Satisfied, Dean eyed the three unconscious alphas and pulled out his cell to call what sounded like the police.

Meanwhile, the slightest of breezes carried over the scent of blood, anger, and the superb aroma of satisfaction and happiness, and something else under that, like the fragrance of cinnamon pralines. It was buttery, sweet, laced with spice, and just golden, and it made Castiel’s Alpha stop and want to just roll in it. It took him a moment to register what made the scent to intriguing, his brain stuttering to a stop and his instincts slapping him around.

_Dean…would he smell like that after…sex?_

He tried to ignore that intrusive thought, trying to think about God and Jesus, but then Dean hung up his phone and chuckled filthily, muttering, “You assholes…hopped up on Heat…thinking you can just fuck any omega that crosses your path? _Ha_. Earn it, dickwads!”

The swearing and the low chuckle made Castiel break into a sweat, made his heart speed up, and Castiel was sure he stank of aggression and arousal.

Castiel fled into the rectory, running to the bathroom, trying to catch his breath. The Alpha in him was conflicted: confused as to why ~~their~~ (nono **no** —not _this_ again) Omega had not waited for them to defend him, but also _ferociously_ _aroused_ by how clever and strong he was. The throb in his pants was unrelenting, and Castiel felt frustrated that, for his entire life, his penis had not figured into his plans at all. Nothing had particularly moved it to stiffen, not even a sea of omegas in heat.

Now, it _demanded_ attention, every day since the moment the sweet scent of caramel apples had reached his nose.

He yanked off his belt and got his erection free, staring at it, betrayed. Filled, it hung huge, heavy, and hard between his thighs, its insistence painful, as the deep-red head tapped at his belly. He randomly thought about how graceful ~~his~~ (Damn it! **NO!** ) _the_ Omega was and preseminal fluid oozed out the tip.

Castiel felt his lips twist into a snarl as resignation set in. If anything, he was getting the hang of this whole masturbation thing.

The smell of caramel apples haunted him, and the scent of satisfaction he had gotten from Dean coiled around his memory, begging to be petted and touched.

He took himself in hand, his grip loose as he pulled forward, shuddering at the pleasure, the impure thoughts of Dean’s rough hands touching his body making him harder in his palm. The idea of Dean presenting sent floods of desire south, his knot tightening, sweat beading his brow as lust swelled at the thought of the slick, _his_ slick, and Castiel’s mouth watered at the thought of caramel on his tongue. _His_ caramel, just for Castiel, with the hint of delicious apples and just _Dean_ underneath that. He dreamed of burying his nose in that sinful scent.

Castiel came in a flood of ejaculate and embarrassment. _Maybe I need to move to the neighborhood over? Where they don’t know me and I can go to confession without facing Joshua?_

Through his heavy pants, the stench of aroused Alpha that stuck thickly to the trapped air in the bathroom, and aftershocks of orgasms rippling through his body, Castiel hung his head and, stuttering out another sticky handful of pure shame, used the scent cleanser spray to hopefully rid the room of the pong.

Just as he doused the room, a panicked, “Hey! Deacon Castiel! Are you in there?”

Sam was outside the door, banging on it with his fist. “Are you okay? There was some trouble outside…”

Castiel sucked in a mortified breath and loudly replied, “Yeah, I had an accident with some coffee.” He quickly doused the room again, glad it was an unpresented pup checking on him, and hollered, “Why don’t we pick this up on Sunday before mass, okay? I’m sure you’ve got it.”

He could actually feel Sam’s pout through the door, but counted on his respect for his elders to leave it be.

“Awww… okay. I understand.”

Relieved, Castiel got into the shower and then slinked off to his room.

Sam was ready. Castiel was not.

* * *

On Sunday, Castiel was feeling extremely nervous. He wasn’t certain why, but he was feeling it to his core.

Sam arrived early, the 830 mass, to observe the other servers, Kevin and Ava, perform. Castiel went through the ceremony on autopilot, trying to figure out what felt off.

When he met with Sam, he directed him to Kevin, who was also serving the 10am mass for the day, to basically shadow Sam and make sure everything went smoothly. It was fine, but Castiel was feeling edgy, even if few people recognized it because it showed in his somewhat more clipped tone and the grinding of his teeth. When mass was over, they put things away and cleaned up. He said goodbye to the boys, and couldn’t contain his smile as Kevin and Sam seriously discussed their performances.

It was then he recognized the itchy, irritating feeling under his skin: he was about to go into rut.

He wasn’t due for a rut for at least another month.

Sighing heavily to himself, he removed his vestments and properly put them away before trudging back to the rectory to find Joshua reading correspondence in the office and informed him of his issue.

Joshua frowned and pulled off his reading glasses. “You’re early,” he stated with significantly less tact than usual.

Castiel shrugged. “I know. I don’t know what triggered it.”

Joshua eyed him and asked, “Did you see the Winchesters today?”

“Just Sam. He was serving today.” Castiel smiled fondly. “He did a fine job too.”

Humming, Joshua said, “Excellent. He’s a smart child. He’ll do well.”

As Castiel opened his mouth to reply, Joshua sharply asked, “Where’s Dean?”

His mouth snapped shut with a click and he felt his calm slip as panic surged through his system. “I do not know. He wasn’t there.”

Joshua nodded. “But you were next to Sam for the past couple hours?”

Castiel frowned. “I don’t know why that is significant.”

Joshua smiled down into his paperwork, slipping on his glasses with a practiced hand. “Just get yourself ready for your rut. I’ll handle your duties.”

A flood of hormones made him pant, crouching over as he tried to regain some control, and he distantly heard a crunch and Joshua’s sigh. “And get a carpenter to fix that.”

Cas managed to look at his hand where it was gripping the door frame, and was vaguely shocked he had crushed the wood to splinters.

“I don’t understand,” he panted, “It’s _never_ been this bad…”

Joshua tutted. “I imagine so. Go on. Go lock yourself in. I’ll handle things.”

Gasping for breath, Castiel did just that.

It was the longest rut he had ever had, metaphorically speaking. It still lasted its usual four days, but they were harsh days. Previously, he had endured his ruts with an iron will, rejecting all earthly thoughts of pleasure with the power of prayer. He had done so for the past ten years, not even the thought of nude flesh, or the porn Gabriel and Lucifer had forced him to occasionally suffer through had made a dent in his willpower. The strip clubs, the clingy prostitutes had done _nothing_.

Now, he was obsessed with a scent. Just a _scent_.

A brief scent that had tickled his brain and sashayed around it, distracting him and controlling his phallus in ways Castiel was utterly unfamiliar. His hand felt strained and his penis hurt from the tugging and rubbing, the need to knot somehow urgent. The thought of caramel apples and cinnamon pralines ate at him, made him want to break down the door and find the source of his problems. Find it and _taste_ that fount of sin, bathe in that scent, make it _his_.

He lost count over the days how many times he had woken up, growling Dean’s name into his pillow and grinding his erection into the unsatisfying sheets.

Even worse, although he was a virgin, Gabriel and Lucifer had certainly _poisoned_ his mind with pornography that he had been able to forget until now. The filthy poses of those film omegas haunted him, their blank anonymous faces replaced by Dean’s face. Presenting. Spreading himself. Begging for Castiel’s knot. Dean’s mouth on his, that beautiful man belonging to Castiel, and only Castiel.

How many times had he come?

When the surge of hormones finally subsided to a controllable degree, he opened his bedroom window, regardless of the cold, and went to the bathroom to take a long shower. He felt like a ragged cloth that had been wrung hard and left on the floor to dry.

He was not amused to find a bucket of water with a note from Joshua that said, “Here’s some holy water to help cool your thoughts. You should know the walls are thin and I never wanted to think of Dean in that way. Confession is being held at St. Andrews tonight at 5pm.”

Blushing from head to toe, Castiel dumped the water over his head, and tried to think blessed thoughts.

* * *

 

Thursday, Dean and Sam showed up as usual, Dean again not coming to the door, while Sam was happy as a clam. “Hi, Deacon Castiel!”

Castiel greeted him but, thinking about his conversation with Joshua at the beginning of his rut, he asked, “Where’s Dean?”

Hazel eyes innocently blinked at him uncomprehendingly for a moment before Sam stuck his thumb out to point behind him. “He said he was almost done with that one part of the Lark, and he wanted to finish.”

“Oh.” From out of nowhere, the thinnest scent of cinnamon pralines spiraled into his nose. Twitching, he tried not to respond to it, but it was hard to hide his indelicate sniffing when, finally, he found himself snuffling Sam.

“Deacon,” Sam mumbled, half smothered by Castiel’s shirt as he sniffed Sam’s hair. “You’re scaring me.”

That shocked Castiel into stepping away from the boy, who gave him a suspicious look and sniffed his own arm with a disgusted expression. “Man, do I still smell like him? Gross!”

“What…?” Castiel spoke ten languages fluently and that was what fell from his mouth. On the other hand, it was probably fortunate that was the only thing: his mouth was starting to water. He could have bathed the boy in it, it was getting so severe.

“Dean’s friggin’ heat,” Sam said, gagging. “The smell sticks to everything in the trailer. We’re going to have to wash the curtains!”

_Heat?!_

Was that why Joshua asked him about Sam? Was just the left over scent clinging to Sam enough to send him into an early rut??

His Alpha snarled bitterly that he had missed the real thing. That his _mate_ had gone into heat without him there to _breed_ _him_.

Castiel shook the thought from his head, and snorted violently to get the scent out of his nose. Sam was eyeing him warily, but Castiel wasn’t paying attention.

His Alpha was pushing him, snarling and snapping, that _Dean_ was outside, probably still smelling of heat and fertility. He needed to see him. Needed to smell him and ~~knot him breed him up~~ (no— **stop!** ) make sure he was okay.

“Deacon, are you okay?”

Castiel heard Sam, but it was as if he were speaking from far away. He heard himself say, “Yes, I’m fine thank you. And you?”

But his feet were already moving forward.

He thought he heard Sam say, “Oh shit!” But he was already out the door, not even putting on his coat.

The weather had been unusually mild for November. It was usually in the mid-50s, but right now it was in the low 60s. Castiel had thought that was why Dean had been working in just a Henley and a t-shirt. He hadn’t thought that perhaps Dean had been just very close to his heat and his body temperature had been unusually high.

He found Dean leaning over into the guts of the car, his hips shifting from side-to-side to the song on the radio, singing along softly to the music. Mesmerized, Castiel just stared at the swaying ass, the warmth in his loins getting persistent again. He ignored it, his hands shaking as he approached the oblivious Omega.

Taking in a long whiff of the garage’s air, Castiel shut his eyes and enjoyed it: _there_. There it was. The faintest trace of cinnamon pralines, the honey-nutty scent setting his skin aflame amid the smells of oil, metal, and grease. He felt the growl in his throat and he somehow managed to prevent it from escaping him. From afar, Castiel felt his nails bite into the flesh of his palms as he wrestled for control.

But something alerted Dean to his presence and the Omega straightened up suddenly, eyes narrowed and ready to fight.

He didn’t relax when he recognized Castiel, and, in fact, seemed to become even more wary, snapping close the hood of the car as he swallowed hard and stared.

“Oh, it’s you.”

Dean paused and Castiel saw his nostril flare as he took in Castiel’s scent, his pupils dilating at it. Castiel was sure the stench from the end of his rut was still sticking to him, and, despite the glare in his eyes, something subtle shifted in Dean’s stance. It was slightly more open, his head tilted just a bit more to the side.

Without thought, Castiel moved forward, stepping into Dean’s space, unable to stop himself from scenting him. That aroma of honeyed cinnamon was much stronger and warmer from the source, and Castiel’s control shook as the last fragrant traces of Dean’s heat crawled under his skin and scratched there, driving him mad.

“Cas,” Dean said, his voice hoarse and shaking. “Cas, did you… did you just have your rut?”

Pulling his nose away from Dean’s neck, Castiel stared into Dean’s golden eyes, their mutual arousal spiraling around them, the scent of Dean's slick thick in his mouth. Castiel didn’t even know if he could verbalize anything, what with the _need_ throbbing through his veins like a military march.

Dean shuddered and tried to back up, only to find himself backed against the Lark. “Deacon Castiel,” he tried, his voice unsteady. “Sn-snap out of it. You’re a man of God, right?” 

 

  


Even if the blood pounding in his ears hadn’t muffled what Dean had said, his instincts were thin threads away from being in control, and—for the first time in his life—a pair of lips held his attention captive. When Dean licked them nervously, leaving a wet streak across them, Castiel fixated on that flash of pink.

_How would he taste? How would he feel under me? I want to know. I want to **know**._

Dean swallowed hard, the action bobbing his Adam’s apple, his breath coming in swift pants. Castiel stepped in even closer, forcing Dean to try and back up again, and he watched fascinated at the roll of emotions across Dean’s face, the warring of desire and fear in his eyes.

The Alpha wanted to soothe him, wanted to keep him, wanted to mate him. But now, right _now_ , he just wanted to taste him. Surely he would be permitted? Surely no one could blame him?

Not entirely sure what he was doing, Castiel cupped Dean’s face, ignoring his gasp at the touch, and kissed him. It was chaste. A simple press of lips against lips.

But things with Dean were never simple.

There was a fleeting thought in his head that they never would be, and a part of him shivered at that, delighted.

The moment their mouths had touched, Dean had moaned in surrender and pushed back against him. Castiel started as Dean kissed him back, the warm lick of Dean’s tongue against Castiel’s lips maddening. He groaned as he allowed Dean in, and his warm tongue invaded Castiel’s mouth eagerly.

Dean tasted like hot chocolate and pure temptation, and, because he’d never kissed anyone like this before, the Alpha could only follow his instincts. It was _intoxicating_. Dean’s body was warm and pliant, even demanding more, as his fingers slipped into Castiel’s hair and their legs slotted together for maximum exposure to each other.

A possessive growl rumbled out, as Castiel came up for air and couldn’t stop himself from nibbling Dean’s throat, the word _mine_ distorted by his elongating teeth. Castiel was about to move his hand underneath the Omega's clothing, not sure what was next, but pretty sure his Alpha knew and that they were both ready for it.

Then, from what seemed miles away, he heard, “CASTIEL! Stop right now!”

The growl in his chest escaped, warning the pest to go away. Beneath him, Dean whined softly, his body yielding to Castiel, and Castiel nuzzled him comfortingly, a low grumble tumbling from his mouth. 

So when a hand grasped his shoulder and yanked to pull him away, Castiel whirled, clawed hands extended.

“Mine!” He snarled. “He’s _mine_.”

A hand connected solidly with his face, the sound echoing in the confined area, and, while his instincts were on board to rip apart the annoyance standing between him and his Omega, his mind reeled because no one had seriously hit him in his entire life. Castiel blinked and stared blankly, the stinging pain in his cheek grounding him. Regaining his mind, he swallowed hard and looked—really _looked_ —at who had hit him, and found Joshua frowning at him, Sam looking scared and upset at his side.

“Are you sane again?”

 _Well_ , Castiel thought, _that’s a painful way to put that_.

But maybe it was apt? He had lost his mind, given into sweet temptation. Even now, the taste of Dean in his mouth was calling him, his Alpha clawing at his self-control to claim Dean for his own.

It was disgusting. He was nothing but a beast. Swallowing hard, Castiel swept past Joshua, not even looking back when he heard Dean's soft, “Cas..?”

Castiel’s thoughts were in shambles. He stumbled into the bathroom and barely made it to the toilet as he threw up everything in his stomach, heaving wretchedly over the bowl. When he couldn’t throw up anymore, nothing coming up but acidic mucus, he leaned his head against the cool porcelain and cried.

Shame buffeted him. He had basically sexually harassed Dean, intent on raping him. He was just as much a brazen, foolish Alpha as those teenagers who tried to assault Dean. Only he was _worse_ because he wasn’t high, and he wasn’t some stupid hormonal teenager.

He had to get away and think. He was useless like this. Worse than that, he was _dangerous_.

Castiel pulled himself up and went into his room, pulling out a suitcase from his closet. He quickly packed and fled out the front door. He’d call Joshua later.

Now, he just needed space to think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WORLD BUILDING: (Is this even helpful? I mean, it's kind of fun for me, but does anyone care?)  
>  **Alphas** : Alphas are generally hot-headed and sadly more short term thinkers. They take orders only from alphas more powerful from themselves. They are self-involved to a large extent, but that pure belief in themselves tends to carry over to their teams and/or companies, so they tend to make successful managers and entrepreneurs, if they have the people to back up their enthusiasm with common sense. Females CAN breed, but generally don't because of their genetics being messed with to breed out the more "feminine" traits for war and heighten their strength and stamina.
> 
> Third-levels are the ones who feel they have to 'prove' themselves the most. Females can try to bear children, and sometimes the children survive, but the female alpha rarely does. 
> 
> Second-levels have less of a need to 'prove' themselves, and tend to be more level-headed. They are most often hired for security teams and rise through the military the most often. 
> 
> Purebloods are probably the most laid back because they have nothing to prove. Out of the three, however, if they lose their temper, they're the worst. They expect everyone to just give in to their whims. They are, in oh so many ways, dicks.
> 
> None of the females can really give birth without putting their lives in severe danger thanks to complications.


	6. Ain’t no sunshine when he’s gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is having a rough time of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Reminder** : Capitalized Alpha/Beta/Omega is second-level or higher. Lower case alpha/beta/omega is third-level or in general.
> 
> I know I said there probably was not going to be any more overlap. Well, I underestimated myself. 
> 
> The title is taken from [Bill Withers' Ain't No Sunshine](https://youtu.be/tIdIqbv7SPo) (well, not SHE'S gone. This also caused me to walk around muttering "And I know, I know, I know..." for like a week.)
> 
> The song in the middle is [Van Halen's Dreams.](https://youtu.be/KH7j185hotE) (Which caused me to walk around and sing, "We're getting HIGHER, and HIGHER, straight up we'll climb!" This, I assure you, is annoying as hell.)
> 
> This is early because I feel like shit and decided to get this over with...

_When it rains, it fucking pours_ was a saying that Dean often used in his head where it was okay and didn’t sound dorky like an old man. But, fucking hell, it was _pouring_ on him lately. Like, seriously, what the fuck?

He had come home after his short stint in the Perch feeling proud of his giant tip and trying not to think about his being groped like he was tomato being squeeze-checked for ripeness. Dean had just tucked the roll of bills into his mattress and patted it happily. He was five thousand closer to getting Sam to college!

Sam had gone off to school like a good kid, and Dean had been left to sleep off his night in peace.

He had gotten up at 1 p.m., checked the door in case they dropped off a list of broken crap in the trailer park for him to fix. There had been. Mrs. Green had somehow broken her oven, could he please stop by? And Mr. Edwards had tried to put away his awning and had broken the handle.

So Dean had eaten a late brunch, gotten dressed, and had gone out to save the world.

Mrs. Green was a little crazy and talked to her French Bulldog a bit too much for Dean’s comfort. She also called him Alex and dozed off in the middle of things, just like someone flipped a switch and knocked her out. She was an old alpha, in her late 80s, and Dean had no idea what she was doing in her pink mobile home with just two (evil) cats and a dog.

She was way too old and crazy to be packed off to a trailer park to live it off on her own. But he wasn’t one of her kids and couldn’t say anything to get her into a nice retirement home or something. Her oldest kid, Stacey, was a total beta hag, who looked just like the bitchy soccer-mom stereotype, from the blunt, blond-streaked haircut to the silver minivan. She looked like she was in her forties and she liked to wear jeans with bedazzled pockets. She probably wore baby pink track pants that said ‘juicy’ across the ass. Dean constantly heard her talking shit about Mrs. Green, about how expensive it was to keep Mrs. Green out of her perfectly done hair.

It wasn’t cool; no one’s kids should treat them like that.

Dean had finished up quickly and quietly gotten out of the place. She had somehow unplugged the stove. He had been just relieved someone had thought to make sure she had an electric and not a gas stove, because, although she wasn’t his favorite, she didn’t deserve to be blown up into so much dog chow.

Mr. Edwards’ awning had needed a new piece to make it retract, so that had gone on his shopping list along with more mac and cheese, milk, and some Lucky Charms for Sam.

Sam generally got home around 4, so Dean had done the laundry, cleaned up a bit, and made dinner. When the kid had finally busted through the door, the trailer had smelled like meatloaf and garlic mashed potatoes. Dean had even added a salad for the health-conscious dork.

He trusted Sam to get his homework done and clean the kitchen, so he took a nap.

Dean got up at 9 p.m., got ready for work, checked on Sam, and headed out.

When Dean arrived at work, he took one look at the huge bouquet of long-stem red roses at the reception desk and knew in his _gut_ that it was for him.

He just _knew_.

He tried to sneak past but Laura—that keen-eyed bitch—grinned at him from behind the receptionist’s desk, leaning out from behind her computer.

“So, _Dean_ , it seems you’re making friends in high places.”

Dean groaned and motioned at the roses with an irritated wiggle of his fingers. “Let me guess: for me?”

She chuckled and handed him a note with a flick of her wrist. Dean took the cream-colored envelope from between her two fingers with a grimace. He glared at the script that read out “Rocky” and sputtered, “How did you even know it was me?!”

Laura, with the perfectly done blond hair, lovely caramel eyes, and sensuous mouth cackled, “ _Meg_. She said you were working HEAVEN last night as ‘Rocky.’”

Dean stifled a groan and ripped open the envelope.

The card read, “My dear Rocky (which I still don’t believe is your real name), thank you for your attentions last night and my apologies. I do not typically act like that. Please allow me to take you to dinner in recompense. Sincerely, Michael Novak.”

At the bottom was a phone number and what suspiciously looked like a tiny, drawn heart.

Dean was left staring at it in utter disbelief. Laura smirked and leaned forward.

“Something good, Dean?”

He wanted to smack the leer off her face. Instead, he swiped a hand down his own face and gawked disbelievingly at the card.

“I wouldn’t say that,” he muttered, viciously tearing it up and coming around the edge of the desk to drop the pieces in the trash.

She pointed at the roses. “What should I do with your rose bush here?”

“Whatever you want,” he called over his shoulder as he strode towards the doors. Dean ignored the smirk and knowing wink the waiting-area security guy gave him because otherwise he was going to punch his face _so_ hard.

Grumbling, he slipped into Purgatory, waved at Garth, and slunk towards his room.

At the top of the split-level stairs, Benny was grinning at him.

“Heard you were an overwhelming success, brother,” he cooed as soon as Dean was in mocking distance.

“Eat me,” Dean muttered and stomped towards his door.

He had almost made it to safety— _almost_ —when Crowley stopped him.

“Squirrel! There you are. I have some news for you. That alpha quartet decided to book another night with us in the party room and, guess what? They indeed took a shine to your assets and specifically requested your presence.”

“Tonight?” Dean asked in a perfectly reasonable voice, and not the high-pitched squawk others might have heard in the hallway. “ **Hell no!** I’m not working the Perch twice in one week!”

Crowley smirked. “You were _requested_ , boy-o. C’mon, let’s get you suited up.”

Dean snarled, “I might be requested, but I’m not a damn slave, Crowley! No means _no_!”

He stomped into his room and slammed the door.

He ignored the growled swearing from the hall, and angrily tugged off his clothes. Dean fumed: _There is **no way** I’m encouraging that guy. None!_

He ignored his Omega whimpering about already having an Alpha with bright blue eyes. A good Alpha, who adored Sam. A proper Alpha that smelled good and just getting a whiff of got his motor running.

He got through the night, found out later that Meg had taken his spot in the Perch, and that Michael had been displeased.

Tough shit. Dean was no one’s toy.

* * *

For a full week, a giant bouquet of flowers showed up at the brothel. It was like Michael was going through the rainbow of rose colors. Every time, there was a small card asking Dean to call him.

“Why the fuck is this man so fixated on me?”

Benny snorted and leaned back against the door frame while Dean was cleaning up after a long night. “Prob’ly because he’s used to getting what he wants. And now he wants you.”

Dean slammed his sheets into the laundry chute, snarling bitterly, “Just because I’m a _whore,_ it doesn’t mean I’m just gonna roll over and let myself be bought like that!”

“Ya sure about that, brother?”

Dean paused in his fuming to glare at Benny. “What exactly does that mean?”

Benny shrugged. “Yer at the prime of your fertility. Yer attractive and ya have a little brother to take care of. Maybe this alpha is yer way out?”

Betrayed, Dean grumbled, “I’m not going to sell myself to the highest bidder _permanently_. That’s just sick.”

Chuckling deep in his chest, Benny murmured, “Lots of omegas do it, _cher_.”

“I’m not most omegas.” _Especially_ , came the intrusive thought, _when I already have an Alpha._

Dean shook his head as if to knock the thought out his ears or something.

Benny just watched him, eyes cautious yet sympathetic.

“Well, maybe you should think about it?”

“Well, maybe you should shut up,” Dean groused, walking over and shoving the Alpha out of the door so he could finish cleaning in peace.

Leaning his head against the door, he ignored Benny’s fading, “Think about it!”

Shaking his head against the cool wood, he groaned, “When will this ever end?”

* * *

The following week was more of the same: random giant bouquets that must have cost a fortune and that Dean wanted no part of. Purgatory was starting to smell like a hothouse, smothered in the scent of flowers because the house omegas had collected the bouquets and put them in different areas for decoration.

Dean was ready to call Michael just to get him to stop sending flowers.

But then, as he strolled in Wednesday evening, there in the waiting area was Michael, larger than life and looking totally like he’d stepped out of GQ in his dark gray suit, elegant tie, and royal blue shirt. He was leaning on the receptionist desk, flirting with Laura, who was blushing hard.

It was almost embarrassing to watch.

Sighing, Dean realized he couldn’t slip past them because Michael was in the damn way. So he stopped in front of Michael, irritation in his scent, and asked, “Can I help you?”

Michael straightened casually, each move graceful, and beamed at him. “Well, _Dean_ , I have bought your whole evening! You’re mine for the night.”

Restraining his urge to punch the man and run, Dean looked over at Laura, who nodded and winked at him.

Like that was what Dean wanted.

He ignored that Michael now knew his name and glared at Laura angrily. She fucking _shrugged_ at him, like it wasn’t the massive problem it was, and he resisted the urge to throttle her. The wench. She probably thought she was doing him a _favor_ from the way she got all heart-eyed and wistful staring at Michael.

Turning his head so he could roll his eyes, Dean coughed uncomfortably and said, “I wasn’t told, and I’m not exactly dressed to go anywhere fancier than a bar or maybe a diner.”

Which was true. He had his little getups in his room, but he was wearing his usual old worn jeans, work boots, and three layers of shirts before his leather jacket got put on top. Sam had even made him wear a dark green scarf and a beanie, because it was getting cold at night. So he was hardly looking like Prince Charming.

Michael smiled benevolently. “Oh don’t worry about that. I’ve got it handled.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean, ‘handled’?”

Chuckling, Michael grabbed Dean’s elbow and maneuvered him away. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it. I’ve got it all set up.”

* * *

As it turned out, Dean was not Prince Charming in this scenario, but fucking _Cinderella_.

Michael had immediately dragged him out front and stuffed him into a 1958 250 GT LWB California Spider. And, while Dean might have been mightily impressed by the fact he was sitting in a 1958 250 GT LWB California Spider with leather bucket seats and a Ferrari insignia in the middle of the steering wheel, he had _not_ appreciated he was nearly hip-to-hip with a strange Alpha in a little car being taken somewhere.

He was going to kill Crowley the next time he saw him. IF he saw him again.

“You said this was approved?” Dean couldn’t keep the suspicion out of his voice or his scent. He didn’t care if Michael knew. He didn’t want to be a statistic, another random stolen omega.

Michael chuckled. “Your boss is quite the businessman. He had demanded a huge deposit to get you back.” He flashed his pearly whites at Dean. “As if I would hurt you…!”

_Of course Crowley did…and just to ensure you don’t, asshat._

Stonily, Dean turned and stared stubbornly out the window. “Well, no one asked me.”

He knew he sounded petulant, but what the fuck?? Was Dean some sort of bride being sold off? Hell, he didn’t _belong_ to Crowley!

The car came to a very smooth stop, which, even angry, Dean had to appreciate, and Michael got out and moved to the passenger’s side to open the door. Dean pressed his lips together and just glared at the offered hand. “I’m not some damsel in distress, y’know?”

He was not prepared for Michael to lean down sniff in front of him. “Dean, I’m aware you’re not a damsel, but you smell heavenly, like caramel and cotton.”

Dean barely restrained his urge to slap a palm in Michael’s face and shove him out of the way. Instead, he shivered at the scent of bamboo and ocean water that snaked around him possessively.

“Are you cold, Dean? Come on, now! Let’s get you ready.”

Dean tried not to glare, but ignored the palm that had been presented to help him from the car.

“Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

It was 930 at night, but the small clothing shop was still open. At least Dean thought it was a clothing shop, until he realized that the word ‘Tailor’ was blazoned across the glass pane in gold lettering.

“I, uh, I can’t afford this,” he stuttered, stopping dead in his tracks.

Michael had walked forward to open the door for Dean, and now he looked befuddled, like he hadn’t expected that response. Oddly, there was something familiar about that expression. Dean dug his heels in deeper while he tried to place it and failed.

“Don’t worry about it,” the Alpha grinned. He released the door and came up behind Dean, pushing him forward with his hand. “I’ll handle it,” he murmured next to Dean’s ear, that possessive scent wrapping around Dean again and making him nervous. Beneath his low murmur was the faintest note of his Alpha voice, something that would have made lower designations back down or fall to their knees.

But Dean fought it, although it raised gooseflesh over his arms and back. He hadn’t recognized it was a tactical move, because—while he fought against the command in Michael’s voice—Michael, the dick, had escorted him into the shop with his friggin’ Alpha strength.

When Dean realized what had happened, realized that Michael had _known_ Dean would focus on the command in his voice and used it to get his way, his temper flared and he snapped, “What the _fuck_ , man?”

Michael smiled smugly. “You can’t tell me you’re not impressed.”

Through gritted teeth that were holding back his growl, Dean lowly replied, “I’m _not_ impressed.”

That took the Alpha aback, a frown etching his forehead as he stared at Dean. A swirl of red drifted into those blue eyes, and the stink of aggression wafted off his skin.

The moment was saved by a slouchy, troll of a man with a name tag that said ‘Marv.’

Dean couldn’t smell anything on him, so figured him for a third-level beta. He was wearing a long-sleeved white shirt, a sweater vest, slacks, and loafers, which on anyone less paunchy and taller would have looked quite nice. On him, it looked like he was a Treasure Troll who had gotten into Ken’s wardrobe.

“Mr. Novak, I have the suit waiting for you as you requested.” Watery gray eyes peered at him from out of dark bags and shaggy brows. The graying curly brown hair and the scruffy full beard did the man no favors. He looked like a mole that was forced up to surface. He looked towards Dean and said, “You must be the young omega. Please come with me.”

Dean frowned but followed, just relieved that Michael had let go of his arm.

Michael took a seat to the side, ignoring Dean’s discomfort as he was forced to stand on a pedestal in front of a three-way mirror. The tailor—who had introduced himself as Marv, as if Dean had missed the gleaming gold nametag—was efficient, although he grumbled when Dean refused to take off his clothes and made Dean jump while he was measuring Dean’s inseam.

“What the fuck? Can I get a warning before you grab my junk?”

Marv gave him a condescending look from under his lashes, but said, “Of course, young omega. I will be more careful.”

Behind them, Michael looked amused, but it turned into a frown as his phone rang.

He shifted his gaze to Dean, making a hand movement to indicate he needed a moment, leaving Dean alone with the skeevy tailor.

“Must be nice to be a kept omega,” Marv said bitterly, measuring Dean’s waist and writing down his findings. “Probably some high-class omega too, what with a fine alpha like Mr. Novak primping you out.”

“Excuse me, but I am _not_ some alpha’s bitch,” Dean snarled. “I didn’t _ask_ to be here.”

Marv sniffed. “Must be nice to have a fine, _rich_ alpha like Mr. Novak take you somewhere you need a fine suit for,” he huffed, handing Dean a suit from the rack behind him. It was pin-striped dark blue.

Dean was summarily shoved off the pedestal and handed a white dress shirt that was very soft under his fingers, and pushed into a changing room.

“I thought you were making a suit,” he asked, staring at the suit and shirt, bewildered.

“I’ve been employed to make you two suits and a tuxedo,” the beta tailor sighed. “A regular old beta has no chance against a hot-house flower omega in attracting a handsome, _rich_ suitor like Mr. Novak.”

Dean snarled, “Would you _please_ shut the fuck up! I’m not a…” His mind blanked for a moment, he was so mad. “A fucking _hot-house_ flower!”

“Sure,” was the melancholy reply, in the same tone as that fucking tailless donkey from Winnie the Pooh.

“What the fuck ever,” Dean muttered under his breath, tugging his clothing off angrily. “Fuck this shit anyway.”

* * *

They left Marv the Shitty-beta Tailor to his work, with the knowledge that the other suits and the tux were to be sent to Purgatory under Dean’s name.

Dean tried to get out of it again, protesting the cost and his discomfort as politely as he could manage without beating the Alpha with a nearby mannequin. But Michael not only insisted, he bought Dean a camel coat to go with his suit, forcing it on while Marv looked on with sad, pouchy eyes. The situation escalated briefly when Michael tried to get rid of Dean’s own clothes by telling the tailor to just throw them away, and Dean hissed and spat until Marv promised to send them and his leather jacket back with the ordered wear.

Even worse, his work boots had disappeared, and some dude with an earpiece had appeared with sparkling new shoes for Dean to put on with his suit. He loved those boots, damn it!

Dean glared sullenly at Michael as he pushed Dean into the car again.

It was humiliating.

He was a grown man, not a child. He could pick his own shoes, thank you very much!

While Dean stewed in his pissiness (and stunk up the car doing it), Michael drove them to the restaurant in record time. It was like god was favoring Michael and granting him all green lights. Just another reason Dean felt irritated.

“We’re here.” Michael parked and (to Dean’s continuing annoyance) ran to the other side to open the door for him again, stretching out his hand.

Dean glared at the hand and got himself out of the car on his own, sweeping by Michael and staring at the restaurant. The Italian flag colors of green, white, and red made up the awning leading to the wooden doors with glass panels that read ‘Corleone’s.’

“It’s 11 o’clock at night and this doesn’t exactly look like a Denny’s,” he muttered, staring at the fancy façade of the Italian restaurant.

Michael came up behind him and set a firm hand against the curve of Dean’s back, tipping his head in to take a sniff of Dean’s throat. It took a lot of self-will not to slap at him like one of the Three Stooges and run away.

“I’m hungry,” he said flatly, walking out of Michael’s reach and into the building.

The restaurant was warm, welcoming, and obviously on the higher end of dining. A host walked up to Dean, a slight frown on his face, and looked ready to throw him out (fancy suit or not), when Michael stepped through the door.

It was like watching a child switch from a ‘I-dunno-about-this’ face to ‘OMG-CANDY’ face.

The host’s game face was on as he purred, “Mr. Novak, how wonderful to see you. We have your table as you requested. Emilio is here to prepare your meals as you asked.”

Michael smiled indulgently, pleased with the efforts. “I do apologize, Vincenzo. My requests were rather unorthodox.”

The host (Vin… Vince?) shook his head, practically fluttered his eyelashes at Michael, and beamed. “Not at all, Mr. Novak! Your remuneration for the time was well worth it.”

Michael helped Dean out of his new camel coat and handed it off to a hovering waiter, who then helped Michael remove his own dark peacoat. They both handed their scarves off as well (Dean at the waiter’s expectant expression and outspread grabby hand), and allowed Vince (??) to lead them into the dining area.

They were led to a quiet table in the back, the glow of a solitary candle greeting them under the muted lighting. The round table was set with gleaming silverware on top of the white tablecloth. It looked romantic, and Dean held back his groan at how annoying it all felt.

They took their seats (Michael actually holding the chair out for Dean to sit.) and Dean stifled more irritation at the host saying, “Your order will be out in a moment.”

 _He fucking ordered for me?_ Hatred started to edge around Dean’s opinion of the Alpha, mixing unpleasantly with the anger he was already accumulating about the guy.

The host scurried away, and Michael set his elbows on the table as he leaned forward. His eyes gleamed in the candlelight, and Dean wanted to stab him with a spork to make them stop.

“Are you enjoying yourself, Dean?” He asked, a confident smile on his face, arrogance oozing off of him.

Dean ducked his head and stared at his lap as he arranged his napkin, his lips pressed together into a thin line of frustration. Finally, he murmured, “Do I have a choice?”

He smelled slight confusion and looked up. Michael’s head was slightly cocked, and he said, “Well, of course you have a choice. I want to treat you well.”

“Letting me pick my own food might be a start on that, then,” Dean groused.

Michael huffed softly. “Let me assure you that everything I’ve chosen is their best offerings.”

_I’d like to be a judge of that._

The host swooped in and showed Michael a wine bottle. Dean watched Michael sniff, swirl, and taste the wine, before declaring it good, and Dean decided he had to stop rolling his eyes or they were going to get stuck that way.

The meal went quickly because Dean responded to everything Michael said with noncommittal grunts. Although the eggplant parmesan was good, it wasn’t Mrs. Miller’s triple-beef lasagna just for him and Sam. The breadsticks were really nice, but they weren’t Missouri’s toasty garlic bread when she cooked for them once a week, checking in on how they were doing. The wine wasn’t a plain old beer.

It was all too fancy. He just wanted to go home and curl on the bed with Sam, watching Star Wars IV and eating cheap delivery pizza.

Dean listened to Michael brag about all his property and power with half an ear.

“Well, and my family is one of the twenty-seven, so as soon as I am pack-lead Alpha, I have access to the clan accounts and that’s why I’m the head of the corporation…”

_Blah blah blah…_

When the dessert came out and it was tiramisu, he ate it because it was fucking delicious.

But he resented every soft, coffee-flavored bite.

Afterward, as they walked out, Michael praised the establishment to high heaven, Vince sticking to his heel like a piece of dog shit, while Dean was pushed along ahead with Michael’s palm trying to slip over his waist the whole time.

He finally just stormed out and waited by the car. It was better than Michael thinking Dean enjoyed his being handsy.

Dean just wanted to get back to the Impala so he could go home and forget tonight had ever happened. Seriously, who the hell wanted to be given no options and forced to listen to some pompous asshat talk about how big and powerful he was?

Michael slipped into the driver’s seat just as Dean had worked himself into a fine temper. Sniffing delicately, Michael murmured, “Are you okay?”

Obviously he did not _smell_ okay, but his ‘date’ was too dumb to get it. Dean gritted out, “Just tired and ready to go back now.” He added, “Thank you for the meal, but you can keep the suits.”

Michael actually chuckled as he started the car and put her into reverse. “I wouldn’t know what to do with omega suits, honey. You keep them; you look like a million dollars and I can’t wait to show you off.”

_OMEGA SUITS??_

Dean knew there had been a spike in his scent when Michael side-eyed him as they cruised down the dead streets, back to the brothel.

Instead of addressing the issues, however, Michael started talking about the new building project he had landed for one of his firms.

Like Dean cared.

By the time they got back to HELL, it was nearly 1 am, and Dean had had it with the bragging and the sneaky hands that were constantly landing on his thigh and sliding its way up towards his crotch, or the shoulder rubbing that felt creepy as hell.

“Dude, what is your deal? I mean, I’m a whore.” He made a ‘what the fuck’ motion with hands. “Your kind wants a fresh and virginal omega, don’t you?”

Michael smile fondly at him and leaned in, ignoring that Dean leaned away from him and actually lightly hit the window with his head. “You are gorgeous, young, and you smell really good.”

Blue eyes sparkled with self-importance.

“You’re almost 20. You’re going to have to mate soon, and, wow…” he murmured, “I want you.”

Dean’s inner Omega whined piteously, wanting _his_ apple-pie Alpha to come save him from the current-pushy Alpha, who was kind of an asshole.

Dean smiled weakly.

“I’m never getting mated,” he muttered mutinously, trying to scoot back from Michael’s presence, although his back was already to the door, the armrest digging into his spine. He quickly ducked out of the car, sighing heavily when Michael swiftly followed him out and moved to catch him.

Dean tried to dodge around him, but Michael was really fast and determined.

Michael smiled broadly and moved into his space, slipping his arms around Dean’s waist, slotting their legs together, and grinding his junk against Dean’s. Dean swallowed his disgust, and, while he was doing that, missed the cue where Michael decided to dip in and kiss him.

Two things happened.

Dean froze, shocked and grossed out, because he never kissed his clientele. Michael just broke one of his rules and it took a moment to process it. A moment that was made worse by Michael trying to slip his tongue in to deepen it.

The second was the possessiveness in Michael’s scent bloomed and curled around him, trying to _mark_ him as taken.

_That’s it!_

Dean shoved Michael off, subconsciously swiping at his lips, and beyond angry about the violation.

Deliberately, in an ice-cold voice, Dean said, “Sir, thank you for the evening. I will see myself in, if you don't mind?”

Annoyance whispered into Michael’s scent, his large hand snapping out to grab Dean’s arm.

“You will be mine,” he growled, his hand a vise.

Dean leaned back in and said, “I'm now off the clock, _sir_. Thank you for coming to Purgatory. _Have a nice night_.”

He snatched his arm back, snorting a bit to get the stink of ocean and bamboo out of his sinuses.

“See you soon, Dean!” Michael crooned, obviously watching Dean walk away. Dean could feel those eyes practically licking him from head to toe before settling like two sticky weights on his ass.

“Yeah, like that's not creepy.”

Thank fuck that was over.

* * *

The next night, Dean walked in early to bitch at Laura about how she wasn't Pat Bullard and this wasn't fucking _Love Connection_ , only to stop dead at the sight of a new ‘gift.’

On the counter was a huge basket with candy in it.

Very _expensive_ looking candy.

In fact, the whole waiting room reeked of pricey milk chocolate.

Groaning, Dean pointed and asked, “Is that for me?”

Laura smiled knowingly and said, “Yep!” With a smug emphasis on the “p”.

It was huge, with at least three large deluxe boxes in it. He peeked in and actually goggled because it was from one of the most expensive shops in Kansas City, known for their use of ridiculously exotic ingredients. He picked up on of the boxes and his mouth started to water. It contained champagne truffles wrapped in gold.

There was at least a grand’s worth of candy in there, and Dean loved candy. Briefly, he wondered if someone squealed about his love of sweets, but shook it off. Flowers then candy seemed pretty standard for (ugh) _wooing_.

Steeling himself, he swallowed hard and pushed the basket towards Laura.

“G-give these to the house omegas,” he said through the pool of saliva in his mouth. Laura grinned, snagged a box, and opened it, releasing an ungodly delicious scent. She popped a random truffle in her mouth and looked like she nearly orgasmed in her seat.

Dean left her to her choco-gasm and slunk inside, wondering why god hated him?

* * *

Not long after the chocolate incident, Dean was sitting in the hall, wearing his favorite ‘in-between customers’ gray robe. The material was a nice heavy felt that felt good on his skin, as he bitched about his stalker to Benny. ‘Stalker’ because Michael just refused to take ‘no’ for an answer, all made worse because he kept feeding Crowley a shitton of money to ‘borrow’ Dean for the night.

For weeks straight now, Michael had been plying Dean with gifts and, worse, surprise visits. Last night was possibly the worst experience of all since it involved _flying_.

“And then he decided to take me on a fucking _helicopter_ , man!” Dean pointed at himself with both hands, eyes wide with frustration. After all, Benny knew how much Dean hated to fly. “Me. On _a god damn **helicopter**_!”

Dean didn’t want to add that he had been dragged on, kicking and screaming, while three of Michael’s goons stuffed him into the whirlybird and bracketed him as they took off so he couldn’t escape. He had given them a couple of black eyes and a broken nose for their troubles.

Not that it mattered: once they took off, Dean had nearly broken his hand holding on for dear life.

Benny was trying not to laugh, but it was hard not to, what with Dean scowling at the memory.

“So what happened next?”

Dean glared, pink staining his cheeks. “On the way back, we hit some turbulence.” He paused and looked away, muttering, “I threw up on him. He had taken me to some fancy restaurant again, which is why the helicopter, and I puked whatever shrimp dish he had ordered us onto his nice clean suit.”

Benny chuckled at Dean’s embarrassment and shook his head. “You do not sound happy, brother.”

Exhausted, Dean rubbed his hands over his face. “I’m really not. I mean, he orders everything, pays for everything, refuses to listen to me…” He heaved a heavy sigh. “He won’t take those damn suits back, and he’s just so… controlling! It’s driving me nuts!”

Smirking, Benny asked, “So Crowley wouldn’ let ya back out of these so-called dates?”

Dean glowered. “That nasty little goblin? He’s probably set up some sort of ‘finder’s fee’ or some shit.”

Benny nodded knowingly. “No doubt. Crowley’s always look’d out for Crowley, first and foremost.”

“Tell me about it.” Dean sat back and knocked his head lightly against the hall’s wall. “How did this all get so complicated?”

Benny grunted. “That’s what you get fer havin’ dat ass.”

Dean smirked and winked. “It _is_ nice, isn’t it?”

Rolling his eyes, Benny stood up off his stool and stretched. “Brother, tha’s what gets you in trouble: dat ass.”

* * *

Thursday was, as usual, their ‘church’ day, the day Dean took Sam over to see Castiel. Dean had come up with various contingency plans to avoid Cas, but it was _difficult_.

He actually wanted to see the man, watch him smile at Sam, light up with nerdy glee and pride when Sam asked him tough questions, the smell of apple pie and linen layered with tones of happy vanilla.

There was something that tickled him when he saw how Cas acted with Sam. It made Dean _happy_ in a way that also made him uncomfortable. Like it was a stolen bit of happiness he shouldn’t be carrying off with him into the rest of the week.

But that’s why it was  _difficult_. For weeks now, Michael had been plying him with gifts and demanding his time. If the Alpha hadn’t been located in St. Louis, Dean’s life would have been unimaginably awful, and the sheer fact the Alpha _still_ managed to show up at Purgatory at least once a week to drag him out was killing him because he wasn’t allowed to say no.

Regardless, the rectory had also become his beacon of hope because Joshua had unveiled the Studebaker.

It was a small jewel that just needed a shine, from its bald tires to its slight rust issues, what with her cracked upholstery and dead battery. The white paint was faded in places, sure, and the chrome needed polishing, but her frame was good and undercarriage solid.

The fact there was little mechanically wrong and most of it was cosmetic made her a dream job for Dean. He always wanted to fix a car by himself, without Bobby or his Dad hovering over his shoulder. The fact Joshua had already given up on the vehicle made it easy to relax and just throw himself into the job without worrying about ruining it.

The old girl was down but not out, and Dean was determined to get her back on her feet.

This particular Thursday had started out annoying because he could _feel_ his heat coming on. His chest vaguely hurt, he felt irritated for no reason, and he wished back the expensive chocolate he hadn’t even _tried_ , just so he could devour it.

All of it. Fuck Laura anyway.

When he picked Sam up, Sam had watched him knowingly when Dean suggested double-meat, double-cheese pizza for dinner. This was _after_ Dean had grabbed a hamburger for lunch, an eye-popping, gut-busting double cheeseburger with onion rings, because he was starving and all he could think about was the fattiest foods on earth.

“You’re going to die if you keep eating like that,” Sam intoned with his teenage superiority.

Dean eyed him and said, “ _You’re_ gonna die if I _don’t_ get to eat like that, capiche?”

Apparently there had been something in Dean’s gaze that scared Sam because he shuddered and backed off fast, his hands raised in surrender. “Capiche, capiche!”

 _Good_. _Pizza is pure win_.

The walk from school to the church was a short one, and, even as they walked up the pavement to the door, Dean could _smell_ Cas. The rich tones of apple pie and brown sugar, the clean smell of linen and freshly wet earth. He shuddered as his body throbbed with _want_ , and coughed into his fist.

“Sammy, I-I’m gonna go work on the car, ‘kay?”

Sam blinked and nodded, and, impulsively, Dean gave him a hug and dropped a kiss on top his head, because he was feeling a bit clingy. Sue him.

Sam batted him off because he was thirteen and thirteen-year-old boys do not want to be coddled by their older brothers, but Dean grinned and hugged him again harder, this time getting an “oomph!” out of Sam.

He swanned off to the garage, ignoring Sam’s griping from behind him, and trying to ignore the scent of Cas following him.

He pulled the garage door up, scenting the cold garage air happily, the smell of grease, dust, and old upholstery ticking his nose. Because there wasn’t a lot of room in the garage, even with the small car, Dean had to push the Lark out a bit so he could work on replacing the carburetor with one Bobby had sent him. Thank god for Bobby and his salvage yard, or the cost of fixing the Lark would have been astronomical.

Dean was in the middle of trying to wrestle out the carburetor when he smelled them: alphas. Drugged alphas too.

Because he was close to his heat, he knew he was probably attracting them. The smell was undoubtedly clinging to him a bit, and he was just wearing a t-shirt and a Henley in the quickly cooling weather.

He straightened himself up and sighed. Dean easily recognized the stench of street-Slick, the overly chemical base of Heat tickling the back of his throat and making him want to puke. Grabbing a rag nearby, he started to wipe the oil off his hands as the trio approached, noses in the air, obvious erections tenting their pants, pupils blown and alpha red, all while drooling and panting.

The three alphas had to be like seventeen, maybe eighteen. Two of them were obviously jocks (possibly ex-jocks if they had been caught doing drugs), while the third looked like a stoner (maybe their source?) all long limbs, bad skin, and greasy hair.

They apparently all had caught wind of him, because they stood panting and sniffing at the driveway entrance, apparently still together enough not to just break into the garage. Not that Dean wanted them too because there wasn’t a lot of room and he’d be easily pinned in the garage.

But, really, their alpha scent was weak, _so_ weak compared to Cas’s. Cas’s rich scent that clung to Sam’s clothes when they got back, that floated out into the walkway, and made him wish for things that he couldn’t have. Occasionally, the scent had him dreaming of chapped lips and mating bites, not that he would admit that to anyone, not when he was waking up in puddles of slick and hard as a rock. Or that he would lay back and get himself off to the thought of a (near enough) priest’s bulging knot, using toys he usually reserved for his heat to get to that place in him, that place he just _knew_ Cas would nail again and again…and no. He didn’t want to think about it.

In comparison, these alphas smelled like watered-down piss, with the sweaty, druggy overtones that stank sickeningly like patchouli. It felt glued to the back of his throat, and he wanted to cough and hack it out.

The buzz-cut blond in the gray hoodie was obviously their leader, as he held back the frothing big guy in a pro-football jersey over a long-sleeved shirt. Mr. Acne was actually acting fairly chill of the three, mostly just mouth breathing heavily, shifting on his feet, and clenching his hands repeatedly, so maybe he had taken a lower dose?

Meanwhile, Buzz-cut snapped at thin air and snuffled at it furiously.

“Yo, bitch!” Buzz-cut barked. “Service us now, whore!”

Dean shook his head. As a second-level, he was easily as strong as these putzes. He pulled a rag out from his back pocket and tried to wipe of the oil on his hands. The damn thing was already soaked with oil from a small spill earlier, but there was a somewhat cleaner corner…

“Just fucking present, bitch! You need lessons on your place in this world?”

Obviously, as alphas and jocks, they were used to being revered and pampered. _Time to burst_ that _bubble_.

“If I need to learn something, I’m pretty fucking sure you’re not the one to teach me.” Dean kept his voice light because he didn’t want them to think he was scared. “Alphas like you are a dime a dozen, plain old third-levels thinking that, just because they got the alpha gene, they can bully the rest.”

Dean laughed at that thought. He was used to fighting off alphas, bigger and meaner ones than three of these low-level fuckwads. “Well, fuck that and fuck you. Now go away; I’ve got shit to do.”

All three faces twisted, alpha rage oozing off them in waves.

“You talk pretty tough for a little bitch,” Buzz-cut snapped, pupils fully blown, froth accumulating at the corners of his mouth.

Dean shook his head and sighed. The fools were going to go for it, and, really, Dean was a bit grateful they were trying it on him and not some poor omega who couldn’t take care of themselves. He looked down at his hand for a second, shifting the oil-heavy spot on the cloth to the center so it would fly better.

He muttered, “Idiots.”

Hell broke loose as Dean threw the engine-oil drenched cloth at Buzz-cut’s face, hitting him square and startling all three alphas. They were obviously not used to omegas fighting back, which made Dean even angrier.

The cloth stuck to the guy’s face just long enough for Dean to pounce forward and hit the dude with all his Omega strength, and he felt satisfied with the crunch of broken bones under his fist and the sickening thud as the guy hit the pavement with a groan and _bounced_ , obviously unconscious.

_Now the big guy._

The big guy was huge, actually inches taller than Dean, and twice as heavy. His initial shock had worn off just in time for Dean to whirl and deal him a left hook that did little than make the guy pause, followed by a hefty kick in the gut Karate-Kid style. _Mr. Miyagi’d be proud!_

All that did was make the frothing-wall-o-alpha curl into himself, gagging, and trying to breathe, as Dean had hit him neatly in the solar plexus like John had taught him.

Just as the big guy went down, tall and scrawny seemed to snap to the fact his friends were down for the count and he needed to pitch in. The dipshit snarled and ran at Dean, just a straight-up run, hands out to grab Dean, and Dean slipped a right hook between the guy’s outstretched arms and pegged him on the chin dead on.

The guy flew back from the impact and thumped to the pavement, knocked out.

But that was all the time it took for the big guy to get his feet under him. His eyes were glazed over with rage, barely tinged with alpha red, as he staggered up and made yet another uncoordinated run at Dean.

Dean sidestepped him easily, putting out his foot, and the guy tripped, flying forward, his entire weight and momentum meeting the unmoving metal carcass of the Lark with an unnervingly loud _thunk_. Although he was the instrument of the guy’s doom, Dean still cringed as the fellow slid down the car trunk, leaving a bloody trail on the white paint, only to land with a pained grunt on the ground.

It was hard not to grin. It was rare nowadays that he got to fight with alphas, at least not since they were sticking around and he had to look out for Sam. He didn’t need vengeful alphas prowling around for him and finding his little brother.

He pulled out his cellphone and dialed the cops, sure that pure joy was just oozing off of him.

Best pre-heat curative _ever_.

* * *

His heat finally hit him on Saturday.

For some reason, this heat was brutal, and Dean thought it was the scent of apple pie and linen that was making him itch from the inside out. His fake knot was doing nothing for him, and he ached and burned for something he knew he couldn’t have.

Sometime in the night, he managed to steal the shirt that Sam had been wearing on Thursday, the scent of Cas clinging faintly to the soft cotton.

He whined as the waves hit him, making him beg for a knot, a _specific_ knot. Because god knew Dean had known plenty of knots in his life, but none of them were the one he _wanted_.

The sweet scent of vanilla in the folds of Sam’s shirt were driving Dean mad, and he sobbed as he tried to find that sweet spot with his toy, only to collapse unsatisfied again and again.

He hadn’t slept, his body ridden so hard by his heat that he had almost staggered out to get Sam to call 911. He knew it was midday because of the way the light slanted into the trailer, but he didn’t know precisely what day it was in his delirium, and he just couldn’t relax. Although exhausted, Dean was still grateful to find a tray outside his door with bottled water, an apple, and a note from Sam saying he was going to church on it.

_Shit, it's only **Sunday**. He's at Church. With Cas._

_It’s not fair,_ his Omega whined and scratched. _It’s not fair. Our mate is there. Follow Sam! Find **him** there! We **need**  our Alpha!_

Dean ignored it and the apple, drinking down the water and crawling back into bed to try his right hand again.

It didn’t help.

* * *

Dean’s heat persisted until Wednesday night.

That was odd because usually his heat was at most a four-day affair of sweaty, twitching misery. The problem with his job was that he was allowed birth control but not suppressants or scent blockers while working Purgatory. The clientele liked to smell him, his _omega_ -ness. Something about it made them feel powerful and just _alpha_. If he had had suppressants, his heat wouldn’t have even been an issue.

Thursday afternoon, he wearily went to fetch Sam from school to walk him to the church, knowing the stench of his heat was still clinging to him a bit more strongly than it should have. He wanted to stay home, but Sam had been on his own all weekend, and Dean felt guilty. He had missed his li’l bro’s entrance into the church-going world, and he was damned if he was going to be stuck in bed while Sam walked to and from the church.

Besides, after the alpha attack, he was wary of letting his kid brother wander around. Some alphas didn’t give a shit if a hole was unpresented; they just wanted to fuck something.

The school bell rang and a flood of kids hit the doors and flowed out over the sidewalks in a loud, colorful crowd. Dean spied Sam talking to an Asian kid until Sam saw him and waved. He said goodbye to the kid and ran up to Dean with a grin.

“You’re done with your heat?”

Dean tried to suppress his urge to blush. “Shaddup. It’s fucking cold out here!”

Sam nodded, tugging at his coat, and Dean noted Sam’s army-green parka was already short in the sleeves and tight in the shoulders. Sighing, Dean grabbed the kid and hugged him. “C’mon. Let’s get us some cocoa.”

As they walked to the church a few minutes later, Sam kept looking over at Dean with concerned hazel eyes, sipping on the hot chocolate Dean had bought them from a nearby café.

“Dean, are you sure you can do this? I mean, you can stay home. It’s not that far away.”

Dean shook his head, enjoying the sweet heat of the chocolate beverage. “No way. It’s getting dark early now. I’m walking you.”

Sam sighed and gave up, even as Dean huffed his exhaustion over the edge of his styrofoam cup. Although his heat was over, he still felt empty, unsatisfied. His Omega had whined and begged to find their Alpha, and of course Dean hadn’t let them. But battling his Omega was hard, and he could feel it sulking in the back of his mind. Not even the silky, warm chocolate made it happy, and generally chocolate was the best balm for his mood-swings.

As usual, Dean decided to stay out of temptation’s way and leave Sam at the doorway. Dean tried not to pout but stepped back as Sam hopped gleefully up the final steps and was let into the warm, glowing house. He turned on his heel and meandered to the garage where the Lark was waiting for him.

Things looked up briefly as he managed to get the car going this time, even if it was for a second, but at least he knew he was on the right track. With that, he hummed happily as Van Halen filled the small garage (much quieter than he would have normally, because...it was a church after all), bent over the engine as he swung his hips along to the music, checking the wiring from the starter.

 _Standin' on broken dreams_  
_Never losin' sight, ah_  
_Well, just spread your wings_

He had just about gotten the bolt that he’d been working on loose when the smell hit him: _mate_.

It wasn’t snaking around him like Michael’s, or trying to overwhelm him like most alpha scents. It just _was_ , that sweet clean scent of his Alpha with the overtone of vanilla and something rich like molasses just pouring over Dean, and his Omega recognized it with glee.

Not only was his Alpha here, but his Alpha _wanted_ him.

The overwhelming powerful aroma of his Alpha made his knees weak and he trembled as he straightened and looked towards the open garage door.

Swallowing hard, he closed the hood of the car and felt the desire to _present_ spear through him. He fought it off and turned to stare at Cas.

“Oh, it’s you.”

Dean didn’t know how he had managed to blurt that out. Cas was intimidating in the shadow of the doorway, the sun setting behind him and leaving streaky, faint rays of light that revealed that Cas’s shoulders were hunched and his eyes were glowing in the shade. Dean could see his hands were fisted, even as his nostrils flared, scenting him.

But worst (best?) of all, the scent coming off Cas was mesmerizing and Dean took a lungful, the rich aroma of molasses sinking into him.

 _Rut_ , his Omega helpfully provided, _he’s been in rut_. _You could have had that knot! Ridden it like a motorcycle seat!_

Dean had to shake his head to control himself, but his Omega nattered in his brain and curled the very last vestiges of his heat into a ball of _want_ at his core.

He was in the middle of trying to control it, trying to stop his need to _just drop and present_ , when Cas broke the moment by moving towards him, into Dean’s space, and _scenting_  him.

Dean gasped, because that close all he could smell was Cas: Alpha and _mate_. That molasses scent was driving his Omega wild and all Dean wanted to do was have a _taste_ of it. The feel of Cas’s scruff against Dean’s neck felt too right, and Dean was suddenly drunk on the pheromones that he had spent the whole weekend longing for.

He shook his head again and somehow found the control to ask, “Cas… Cas, did you… did you just have your rut?”

By some miracle, Cas pulled himself together and leaned back enough to look Dean in the eye, the scent of their mutual arousal spiraling around them. Cas’s pupils were blown, his Alpha so close to the surface, Dean could almost see his flesh rippling with the urge to change.

Looking into the sheer want on Cas’s face, the slick started to flow from Dean and he knew what the problem was.

_I want this. I want this so badly._

But Dean was tainted by his job, and it didn’t matter because Cas was off limits. Cas wanted to be a priest, no matter what their hormones said otherwise. So as much as Dean _wanted_ , he drew together the last bit of strength he had. He shuddered and tried to back up, only to find himself backed against the Lark.

“Deacon Castiel,” he tried, his voice unsteady, hoping using Cas’s title would bring him to. “Sn-snap out of it. You’re a man of God, right?”

But Cas’s attention was fixated on Dean’s lips and Dean nervously licked them, shocked when a tiny growl rumbled out of Cas. The Alpha had almost taken over Cas entirely, the predatory gaze flicking down to Dean’s neck as if he were planning where to put his mating bite.

Swallowing hard and trying not to pant, Dean felt like a rabbit that had been pinned. His Omega had basically rolled over and presented, and Dean was left with almost nothing to keep himself upright but pure stubbornness. Because he _did_ want Cas. But not like this. Not nearly feral, his teeth sharp and his eyes more wolf than man.

Even as slick trickled out of him, Dean tried to hold it together, panting at the effort it took. When Cas stepped in closer, slotting their thighs together, he pinioned Dean over the hood of the car, trapping Dean in-between his arms so he couldn't escape.

A small whine escaped Dean. He couldn’t help it. Their scents were mingling into something heady that continued to eat at his willpower.

But Cas frowned softly, squinting at Dean like he was an oddity. His soft hand cupped Dean’s face, making him gasp at the unexpectedly tender touch, and then Cas was kissing him.

Cas was _kissing_ him.

This was something beyond Dean’s hopes and dreams. When he had been laid up with his heat and nothing was soothing that ache, sometimes just the thought of _kissing_ Cas was enough to make him nearly come. The idea of those wide pink lips and clever tongue tasting him was something he kept in his spank bank.

But the _reality_ was so much better.

The soft touch of those innocent lips was agonizing and Dean wanted more. He sobbed his surrender and pushed up against Cas’s mouth, licking to finally, _finally_ taste the apple pie he’d been yearning for and did so greedily. He slipped his fingers into Cas’s hair, pushing his erection against Cas’s desperately, moaning faintly that his Alpha _wanted_ him like he wanted his Alpha.  

A low, possessive growl escaped Cas as he ripped his mouth away and nibbled aggressively at the skin under Dean’s collar, the word _mine_ barely audible as Dean gasped, his Omega nearly completely surging to the surface by his Alpha’s nips. He wanted it. He wanted those sharp teeth to take him, _own_ him…

“CASTIEL! Stop right now!”

The voice shocked Dean and stopped Cas for a brief moment before he turned and growled at the voice. Dean’s Omega whined softly at the interruption, and Cas turned back to nuzzle him comfortingly, his protective rumblings rolling through them both.

Through hazy, pheromone-drugged eyes, Dean could see Joshua and a scared-looking Sam next to him. Joshua stalked up to Cas, scowling fiercely, and grabbed his shoulder. Dean cried out as Cas whirled with claws and fangs, his eyes pure red Alpha aggression. Joshua (and Sam) were in danger!

Dean's knees gave out, despite his need to protect Sam, and he slumped to the floor of the garage. All Dean heard was, “Mine! He’s  _mine_.”

He shook his head and tried to clear the pheromones, just as there was a resounding slap that made him look up, startled.

Joshua had his hand raised, glaring angrily at Cas, who had a red mark on his cheek and seemed to be blinking back to humanity.

“Are you sane again?” Joshua snapped out, eyes blazing with indignation.

Cas blinked and seemed to look at Sam and then back to Joshua. To Dean’s mortification, he didn’t even look at Dean before paling and running off.

Dean whispered, “Cas..?”

But Cas ignored him and slammed into the rectory.

Joshua bent down and reached out a hand to Dean, who blankly stared at it, not sure what had just happened.

“I’m sorry, Dean. I said you would be safe, and yet here you are.”

Sam looked like he was holding back tears, but somehow Dean felt like _he_ wanted to cry.

Because Cas actually _didn’t_ want him. Not when he was sane. Not when his wolf wasn’t riding him.

Stifling his tears, Dean ducked his head and nodded.

The words fell out of his mouth softly. “Yeah, it’s fine. He didn’t mean it.”

Of course his _mate_ wouldn’t want him.

This was _Dean_ after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **World Building: "Heat"**  
> 
> This idea of "Heat" as a drug came about because of all the ABOs that push slick as a reason alphas lose their shit and rape. I thought, "What if it was on purpose? What if it was used as an addictive drug?"
> 
> Then, I remembered something from one of my favorite B-movies, Barbarella. Ah, young Jane Fonda. Anyway, [ there's a scene with a bunch of women smoking "Essence of Man"](https://youtu.be/6caJjZstNoY) that made me think about hookahs for smoking slick. Of course, hookahs are more complex than that, but HEY! That's where the idea came from. Look how mellow those women look... ha ha. So, if alphas smoked slick, what would it feel like? Soporific? I would think so, but it's an interesting idea. All of the sweet taste and smell of slick...it goes straight to your brain like heroin or crack cocaine according to most ABO... so soporific.
> 
> But let's imagine it being used for addicts. Like, say crack (again) or meth? Where it gives a wicked addicting high that's sell-able to third-level alphas who feel inferior because they aren't second or first levels (let's say)? That are barely better then second-level Betas or Omegas (aww)? What if it's synthesized from medical-use Slick, that's used for erectile dysfunction (Viagra!), because aging alphas have less testosterone (or whatever) and they need the boost?
> 
> Ah, it tickled me a lot, this idea. (I don't have to be right. It's just fiction.)
> 
> **Thrall**  
>  There is, although it may not show up here, an omega drug, although it's not used the same way. 
> 
> After long discussions with others on the topic, I found out that people mostly thought alpha-scents were comforting to omegas. It made them feel safe. So, IF!! I were to introduce the omega-version of medical-use Slick, it would be something that's generally used for anxiety. The addiction is more like opium, numbing. Probably. So these drugs may not show up, but they exists in my brain.
> 
> BTW -- It's only called "thrall" because I couldn't think of another word. If you have a suggestion, throw it my way, please!
> 
> Come talk about it on my fan fiction Tumblr! <http://naoefanfics.tumblr.com/> I'm not at all cool, but I like to talk about ABO stuff! (I really only post about this stuff and update. Ch 7 is driving me somewhat mad.)


	7. Like a gypsy out on the road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas tries to pull himself together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Reminder** : Capitalized Alpha/Beta/Omega is second-level or higher. Lower case alpha/beta/omega is third-level or in general.
> 
> A/N: Koi hibernate. Who knew?  
> A/N2: Cas is experiencing extreme jealousy, but it might seem like anxiety to some people so... be aware.
> 
> Title from The Allman Brothers Band, "[Nobody to Run With](https://youtu.be/VOaQAMC17GQ)."
> 
> I only got a beta check on Version 1, so this is _technically_ un-beta'd. If you see any issues, PLEASE tell me. I will NOT be a dick. I swear.
> 
> Also - if you commented and I failed to respond, I'm an assbutt. I see it and I try to remember to respond, but then I forget because RL bites my ass. Thank you for your comments; they mean the world to me and keep me going in my darkest hour of paper writing.

For Castiel, ‘home’ was a ridiculously large house at the edge of a small town in the Middle Of Nowhere, Illinois.

It was seated in the center of a few hundred acres worth of land, owned primarily through treachery and impeccable breeding. It was kept in trust as long as the Novaks remained one of the twenty-seven clans in the world to have pureblood children. Sadly, this did mean some inbreeding was attempted to keep the lines blue, but—for some reason that science could not explain—it seemed to weaken the genetic lines instead of strengthening it, making unwanted recessive genes bound to the front (like weak chins, a tendency towards psychopathy and murder, and occasionally eating their young) so it was avoided.

This was why, although Castiel loved his home, he thought it was absurdly huge, even if it housed most of his family’s extensive pack of over a thousand members, of whom maybe .5% had the right genetics to lay claim to the Leadership.

Castiel was in that extremely rare .5%, being a pureblood Alpha, and—in fact—when he turned to the priesthood, his older brother, only a second-level Alpha, took it over because his pureblood Omega brothers were ineligible. Their father, the Pack-leader, was a pureblood Alpha who had married for blood and politics, not love, but Charles was dutiful, if not a practical man. Besides, Jophiel (or Dina to her friends) was a Beta beauty of impeccable bloodlines.

Regardless, there was little love lost between them, although they had settled into an agreeable arrangement after she (finally) gave him an Alpha pureblood and he left her alone to her own pursuits.

It wasn’t her fault Castiel didn’t want to be Pack-leader, as was his place as the only Pureblood Alpha of the head family. She blamed his stubbornness on Charles's genetics.

Of course, Castiel wasn’t sure he wanted the twins in charge either: they were extremely random and irreverent about things most of the time. Especially Gabriel. Lucifer, at least, _attempted_ to be serious in front of people.

But now that he was home, Castiel was uncertain what he wanted or why he had come _here_ of all places. The Leadership main house was constructed out of cold marble and dismal stained-glass windows portraying saints being savagely martyred (prominently placed was Saint Sebastian shot full of arrows and Saint Ignatius being eaten by lions), and it felt more like a heartless church than Joshua’s comfy little cathedral at St. Thomas’s. It even echoed unpleasantly, and most of his immediate family stayed in the main wing where the bedrooms were, or, in the case of his parents, away. As much as possible.

Because of that, when he had arrived in the very early hours of the morning, Castiel had skirted the main entranceway and the huge hall by sneaking in through the servants’ entrance, which led through the kitchen, and had practically tiptoed his way to his room, praying his mother (if home) was asleep somewhere and wouldn’t sense him.

He didn’t want to face his parents.

Creeping past the twin’s rooms and into his own set, Castiel did something he had not done since he was sixteen: he gently closed the door to his bedroom and flopped face first into the sage-green duvet.

The duvet smelled like dust and he coughed into it, deciding not to move when he heard the door swing open and a smooth, warm voice murmur, “Well, well, well. Look at what the cat dragged in.”

“Leave me alone, Lucifer,” Castiel muttered into the fluffiness of his duvet, sucking in dust with every breath.

“Not likely,” Lucifer chuckled. There was sound of texting, and Castiel gave a (muffled) groan because he knew what that meant, and it was verified by the sound of feet running down the hall.

“OH, holy fuck! It’s true! Cassy, what _are_ you doing here?” New voice, old torment.

“Go _away_ , Gabriel,” he growled into the bed cover, trying to ignore the hurried exchange of information that was going on four feet behind him.

“Did he just get in? How did you see him before me?”

“I was getting a snack from the pantry and he tried to sneak by.”

“Did you get me something? I know Ellen baked oatmeal cookies earlier.”

Lucifer impolitely snorted. “I was getting myself a sandwich. Not all of us are as enamored of sweets.”

“WOULD YOU PLEASE HAVE THIS CONVERSATION ELSEWHERE?” Frustrated, Castiel reached up and snagged his pillow, slamming it over his head and hoping he would suffocate than deal with the twins a moment longer.

There was a soul-chillingly familiar moment of silence that marked the twins talking to each other without words and that definitely involved smirks and plans to make Castiel miserable.

Then there was a shift on the bed as someone sat on the edge and Castiel heard someone (Gabriel it seemed) say, “What’s up, little bro? God got you down? Jesus not take the wheel?”

“Go away, Gabriel,” Castiel grumbled into the duvet as someone rudely plucked the pillow off his head.

“Tsk tsk, Cassy,” Lucifer intoned, tossing the pillow off to the side and settling himself next to Gabriel. “What could possibly have forced your grumpy ass home?” There was a pause and Castiel could just _feel_ the familiar _silent_ twin conversation going on over his head. “It’s not a _girl_ problem, is it?”

Gabriel honked out a lewd laugh. “Bro, we threw every variation of ‘hot’ and ‘wet’ at this little peckerwood, and he ignored them all, even when they were dying to ride his dick.”

Castiel tensed and prayed they couldn’t read him. _Oh dear Father in Heaven, I beg You. I have been a fine servant of Yours for decades. Surely this **one time** You can spare me?_

Lucifer sighed. “Always so crude.” Ominous pause. “Perhaps… an omega?”

_WHY HAVE YOU FORSAKEN ME, HEAVENLY FATHER??_

Gabriel ‘ooh’d’ appreciatively and then someone was sniffing at him brashly. Castiel, out of pure childhood habit, almost lashed out.

“Oh, you might be right! You can just barely smell them!” More sniffing and another bout of (uncomfortable for Castiel) silence, before there was a sharp, painful poke to his side that Castiel did slap at, and then a hard shove as Lucifer roll him over and Gabriel leaped on his waist, the two ganging up on him to pin him down.

It was like Castiel was twelve all over again.

Castiel glared up at the two blondes, one with honey-brown eyes like their mother, one with bright blue eyes like their father.

Lucifer, who was pinning Castiel’s wrists while Gabriel sat on his waist, leered down at him. “Now, Cassy, you know you can’t lie to us.”

“Just tell us and we’ll let you up,” Gabriel grinned, his fingers moving towards Castiel’s well-known weakness: ticklish sides.

The prepubescent fear of peeing his pants flared up in Castiel, because Lucifer and Gabriel were both ruthless and wouldn’t care that he was in his mid-20s: they would make him piss himself because they thought it was funny.

Probably more so because Castiel _was_ 27 and, as a grown-man pissing himself when he wasn’t even drunk, it would haunt Castiel until he was dead.

Groaning, Castiel scowled up at Gabriel, knowing he was the slightly easier-going one. “It’s none of your business,” he gritted out.

“I beg to differ,” Lucifer interjected smoothly. “It’s not yet Thanksgiving, nor is it Christmas, yet here lies my baby brother, face down in his bed, looking much like his bullied fifteen-year-old self.”

Castiel shifted his scowl upwards. “I’m not being bullied,” he groused gruffly.

Gabriel teased finger wiggles over Castiel’s ribs, causing Castiel’s breath to hitch. “C’mon, Cassy. We can _smell_ them on you…”

Castiel considered his options. If he admitted to his brothers that he had had a *ahem* sexual awakening, he’d never hear the end of it. They would _make_ him admit everything, every salacious detail, bother him for every single embarrassing moment.

If he didn’t tell them, they would literally hound him until the end of the world, prank him endlessly, and— _worst of all_ —tell their parents he was hiding something.

The brief thought crossed his mind that if he killed his brothers and buried them somewhere on the sprawling pack lands he wouldn’t have to do anything but sit around and repent. But then he’d really go to Hell, and he didn’t want to do that.

His thought process was interrupted by another wiggly-finger treatment along his sides, and his Alpha—already thoroughly pissed off and sulking over leaving behind his Omega—surged up inside him and caused Castiel to snap viciously at Gabriel, fangs and all.

“Whoa, bro! What the actual fuck?”

Reality came back in a few blinks, and Castiel found both Lucifer and Gabriel exchanging serious looks over his head. He groaned miserably and snapped, “Fine! There is an Omega!”

 Lucifer released his wrists and proceeded to clap. “Was that so hard to admit, Cassy,” he smirked.

Castiel snorted impolitely and bucked up to dislodge Gabriel, who hopped off with an annoying amount of finesse and grace.

“So, what’s her name?” Gabriel pulled a chocolate bar out of his jeans’ pocket, unwrapping with casual ease. “Is she pretty? Are you leaving the fucking church and finally getting laid?”

Lucifer shook his head. “Now, now, Gabe. Leave him be. He’s just discovered he has a working dick. He must be in shock.”

Grumbling, Castiel pushed himself up to sit at the side of the bed and leaned over to hide his face in his hands. “Why couldn’t I have been an only child?”

Gabriel laughed. “Could be worse, you could have just had _Mikey!_ ”

Lucifer shuddered. “Infinitely worse. I love Mikey, but he can be such a douche.”

“And it’s just worse that you gave up Leadership to chase after God,” Gabriel sniped.

“Would you two _please_ shut up,” Castiel grumbled into his palms. “I’m having a crisis and you two yammering on is driving me mad.”

The twins exchanged wicked looks that Castiel just caught as he lowered his hands.

“We will _if_ you tell us about her,” Gabriel said through a mouth full of chocolate and nougat, settling himself next to Castiel.

“More like we will _if_ the story makes it worth it,” Lucifer hummed, settling himself back on Castiel’s other side.

“My life is not here for your entertainment,” Castiel growled irritably.

Gabriel grinned. “Baby bro, I guess someone forgot to give you the little brother handbook. Says it right in the manual: for older siblings’ good times.”

Lucifer chuckled. “They ought to start tagging the newborns with that. ‘Wash gentle in warm water. Made for older brothers to tease.’”

Castiel shoved at both at them, annoyed, but there was something rather comforting about his brothers teasing him. They were both unsinkable in the face of oppression, and, as Omegas, that was pretty constant.

“Fine,” Castiel muttered, rubbing his hands over his face. “I’ll tell you. It all started with the smell of caramel apples—“

“Oh I like this story already!”

“Shut up, Gabe.”

* * *

 

Gabriel was a persistent assbutt.

After Castiel had told the twins about Dean, Lucifer had hummed and seemed to sink into thought, but Gabriel had immediately started grinning slyly and nudging him knowingly.

“I knew sooner or later showing you all that porn was going to pay off! Now you at least know where to put your dipstick!”

“That’s disgusting,” Castiel snorted.

Lucifer asked, “Do you know where he works? Your omega?”

Unsure what that had to do with anything, Castiel replied, “I know he works at a trailer park fixing things, but I think he also works at a bar, according to his little brother.”

Lucifer’s face smoothed, which was an indication he was lying about something, and Gabriel threw him a concerned look.

“Luci, what are you hiding?”

Lucifer shrugged and cautiously asked, “Have you spoken to Michael lately?”

Understanding lit Gabriel’s face. He flicked his gaze over to Castiel only to shift it back to Lucifer, widening his eyes questioningly.

“I haven’t…why?” He didn’t know why Gabriel had made that expression and it made him uncomfortable.

Lucifer smiled coolly and patted Castiel’s knee, standing up. “No reason. Ah, I have so much work to get done.”

Castiel and Gabriel watched him walk out, and Castiel asked, “Gabriel, did I miss something?”

His discomfort was doubled by Gabriel’s hugging him with one arm. With a murmured, “Good luck, kiddo!” he ran off after Lucifer, leaving Castiel alone and very confused.

He had decided the twins would tell him in their own good time.

After all, he had that now: time.

* * *

**THE TWINS**

“Gabe, we can’t tell him.”

They were safely ensconced in Lucifer’s rooms, Lucifer having taken refuge in his private office. He had taken a seat at his desk and turned to face Gabe. Gabriel stared at his older brother—by twenty minutes—with his mouth open and his new lollipop hanging out. “Are you nuts? We have to tell him! Mikey’s been bragging on his ‘soon-to-be new acquisition’ for like a _month._ If it turns out to be the same Omega, it’s going to be fratricide!”

“It’s too coincidental not to be the same one.” Lucifer frowned. “They both talk about the Omega’s scent being sweet like caramel _and_ a second-level who works at a bar." Lucifer snorted. "They're familial Alphas. They probably would pick similar mate scents. The problem is that Michael has enough hang ups, what with _always_ being the second choice.”

Lucifer muttered, raking a hand through his hair. “He’s been so happy lately, too.” He paused and pursed his lips. “I think we should just leave them alone. Let them figure this out.”

Gabe groaned. “Dude, if Cassy finds out we’ve been lying to him, he’s going to kill us. I mean, he _hates_ to be teased and if this really is his _mate_ that Mikey's wooing..." He shook his shoulder-length hair. "I don't think we want to be involved in that particular shitfest.”

Lucifer nodded but smiled crookedly. “But that's the point! If we just act like we don’t _know_ anything on either side and let it play out, it could be interesting to see who’s going to win.”

Narrowing his eyes at his brother, Gabe replied, "Dude, we can hold Mikey down between the two of us, but we're fucked if Cassy decides to wolf out. No one aside from _Dad_ can take him on." 

"I doubt Cassy would let it get to that point," Lucifer said smoothly. "He's so in control all the time. No one has even seen him get angry for fuck's sake." Lucifer smirked. "Don't you kind of want to see it?"

Gabe shrugged. “I mean, _yeah_. As long as neither of them die, I guess it’s okay.” He grinned wickedly. “And I _do_  kinda want to see Cassy lose his shit.”

“He almost _bit_ you today, and it had nothing to really do with that Omega,” Lucifer warned. “Seriously, if he goes feral, you're right: _we_ won't be able to stop him.”

Gabriel hummed and bit down viciously into his lollipop, shattering it. “But then he’ll know what he wants, bro. And that’s better than where he’s at right now.”

“True. Very true.”

Gabriel crunched his candy and eyed his brother who had his plotting face on. “So, what’s the plan?”

“For now? Avoidance.” Lucifer slipped on his suit jacket and prepared to leave. “I’m going to stay at my office. God knows when Mikey is going to get home and the fur will literally fly.”

* * *

Whatever Castiel thought he was going to get by coming home, he hadn’t actually been expecting _space_.

It was a reprieve from God that his father was out of the country for some stuffy clan-Alpha meeting, while his mother had taken the week to go to Sweden and enjoy the saunas with five of her best Beta buddies. Gabriel actually had a commission due. He had made his name as an artist, and he was often called upon to design sets and paint gorgeously realistic backdrops for plays.

On the other hand, Lucifer was in the middle of a court case. Castiel was certain Lucifer just enjoyed playing with everyone’s mind, because there was no other reason that an Omega would be a defense attorney in Alpha Rights. It was practically twisted, but mostly Castiel suspected Lucifer liked to see alphas squirm because they had to depend on an Omega to save them.

Overall, Lucifer had a good record, but generally his effort seemed to depend on whether or not he thought the alpha was innocent.

So today, Castiel was enjoying having everything to himself (if the presence of five groundskeepers, eight maids, a chef and a sous-chef, the housekeeper, and a butler didn’t count). He wandered through the wide-open spaces of the estate, trying to figure out how he had lost his path so easily?

When Castiel was young, God had seemed so close, so fulfilling, a shelter from the pettiness of the Novak Family and the constant tricks from his older brothers. Prayer was soothing, the songs at mass relieving and empowering. When he realized at sixteen that he wanted to be as close to God as possible, it never even occurred to him that God, his beloved and omniscient God, might have another plan for him.

Because, for him, the House of God was warmer and more fulfilling than his own home. He had wanted that safety and comfort. He still craved it, the intimate knowledge that God was there for him and loved him.

Castiel sighed as he stood at the edge of the large decorative pond his parents had installed over twenty years ago. In spring, the fat and huge koi that had lived there since the beginning would swim large and lazy circles in it. In November, the water wasn’t quite freezing over yet, but it was definitely looking icy and the koi were nowhere to be seen, probably already hibernating.

He wished he could just hibernate and hide away from it all.

After all, it wasn’t as if he felt _less_ close to God, Castiel thought wearily as he walked around the pond. It was just that he had never even considered in the slightest that there might be _something_ _else_ waiting for him. He shivered as he strolled, unsure if it was the cold air or his fear of his future. The weather was brisk, in the low 50s, and he had had to borrow a coat from Lucifer. It was leather and smelled like cardamom and star anise. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it definitely wasn’t caramel apples.

Castiel bent over and picked up an errant stone, tossing it with a flick of his wrist into the pond so it skidded across the calm surface and left tiny shockwaves in its wake.

_Much like Dean had sent shockwaves into my life._

He frowned at the thought. It wasn’t Dean’s fault. He was as much a victim of his biology as Castiel. And, ultimately, Castiel was like a good ten years older than the young man and had already chosen the celibate life. Dean was a beautiful young Omega. Dean still had years until he turned twenty and he could still find a much better mate than some old… religious…

At the thought of Dean with another alpha, his stomach clenched painfully, his heart throbbed hard and grievously, and he had to lock his jaw to stop himself from throwing up his breakfast. The memory of how Dean had felt beneath him, the small sounds he had made as they were pressed together, the very taste of the young Omega was enough to make his phallus take interest, but Castiel couldn’t wrap his mind around the thought of _taking_ him.

His _Alpha_ did. His Alpha thought they should have pushed the willing Omega against the car and knotted him, bred him up like he was _meant_ to. His Alpha was pleased they had marked the Omega up with their teeth and lips. His Alpha _wanted_ his Omega. It howled and paced under his skin, wondering why they were so far away from him, reliving that moment again and again, the feel of the supple flesh of Dean’s back and the feel of their penises sliding against each other within their pants…

Swallowing heavily and well aware of the tent in his slacks, Castiel turned back towards the house.

What did God want from him?

Was The Call[1] a lie? Was he not meant for Service?

Castiel no longer knew.

* * *

Like the twins, Castiel was dreading Michael’s return home although it was for different reasons. The twins hated how uppity Michael got. Castiel disliked how competitive he got.

Michael typically returned home on the weekends to hang out with their mother, and Dina hadn’t been home in a week. In fact, the twins had also been conspicuously missing since he’d come back. If he hadn’t known that Hael was at her grad school in Boston, he would have thought she was avoiding him too.

So today, Castiel was reading a theology book in the breakfast nook, just off of the small hothouse his father had had installed last year. This particular hothouse was used almost exclusively for exotic flowers and rare plants, whereas the large greenhouse was used for winter gardening and keeping down the House’s produce costs.

The coffee in the delicate china cup was, as usual, exquisite as was the blueberry scone Ellen had produced. The air was just a touch chilly in the nook, enough to warrant the light sweater he was wearing. The sun was almost magically bright through the bay windows that had also recently been installed, and the rays were just starting to warm the area.

It was pleasant, soft, and warm. The most comfort he had felt in a while. He had missed being spoiled by Ellen, who had basically raised him because of Dina's numerous 'obligations,' and the pleasantry of being alone in quiet contemplation without obligations hanging over his head like a Damocles sword.

Then the scent of old bamboo and stagnant ocean water snaked around him and he internally groaned as two strong (competitive) arms wrapped around him, pinning them to his side.

“Castiel! You’re home!”

“Welcome home, Michael,” Castiel grunted, waiting for Michael to release him.

Ever since Castiel had presented as a pureblood, Michael had been unreasonably competitive with him. The moment Castiel had _changed_ in the middle of his first rut at fourteen—bewildered by his suddenly being on four feet and covered in fur—Michael had never quite forgiven Castiel for taking their father’s affections from _him_ or for beating him in the genetics game.

It wasn’t surprising Michael had taken it so hard. By 26, Michael had grown up expecting to take the Pack-leadership since none of his siblings had presented as a pureblood Alpha. Hael was a Beta. The twins were Omegas. So Michael had been feeling secure as the only Alpha offspring, even if he was just a second-level.

At least that comfort had be there until—at age fourteen, with a howl and the sound of every bone in Castiel’s body snapping into new positions like crushing rice crispies under hand—his baby brother had gained the genetic privilege to deny Michael everything he had ever thought he had deserved.

So as long as Castiel could now remember, the knowledge that Castiel could take everything from him at a snap of his fingers had haunted Michael and driven him to cutthroat measures he had never had with the twins.

Desperate to keep his edge as a potential leader, to out prove the genetics that said he was second best, Michael had upped his sales, fired up his skills, and skyrocketed to the position of CEO in a matter of years, landing it at the young age of 32, the youngest CEO in the history of Celestials Inc. It had never seemed to matter much to him that Castiel had already felt The Call and had dedicated himself wholeheartedly to the Church.

Because Castiel _always_ had the biological right to take everything away from Michael, and he knew it. Even with The Call burning in Castiel’s veins, there was also the fire of a pureblood Alpha lingering there, waiting to take over. Waiting to _dominate_ and oust Michael forever.

As such, Michael had had to live with the fact he was the inferior Alpha and it burned him. His love for Castiel was twisted with anxiety and fear, and it had morphed into a bizarre obsession with knowing _exactly_ where Castiel was and what he was up to. And even if the obsession had somewhat settled when Castiel had moved to St. Thomas, the jealousy at Michael’s core never had.

As if reading Castiel's mind, Michael squeezed him a bit harder, until he elicited a strained groan from his baby brother, and, satisfied he’d made Castiel acknowledge his strength, he finally sat down.

“What are you up to, Cassy?” He asked, smiling up at Jo, their butler, as she placed a fresh cup of coffee and a blueberry scone by his elbow.

“I’m reading,” Castiel replied curtly. Talking to Michael was a task he tried to avoid because Michael never wanted to just _talk_. It was verbal chess at the least, gladiator blood sports at the worst.

Michael made demanding motions with one hand, while using the other to take a sip of his coffee, and Castiel stifled a sigh and handed over his book. He wasn't disappointed by Michael's condescending response.

“’Unclean’?” Michael cocked his eyebrow in disbelief. “They let you read this stuff?”

“Richard Beck is a respected theologian,” Castiel responded stiffly. “Bishop Ángeo recommended it to me.”

“Of course he did.” Michael handed back the book with a smirk, and, for perhaps the millionth time in his life, Castiel wondered what he had done to make his brother dislike him so much? He wasn’t in charge of his biology. Inwardly, that seed of resentment that had recently taken root sprouted a bit more. His entire life, his biology had defined him, made his family pigeonhole him, made his brother hate him, and now made him _desire_ and _need_. It was too much.

He glowered at Michael.

“If I may ask, why are you home? Our parents are not here, and neither are the twins.”

Michael took a bite of his scone and chewed thoughtfully, staring at Castiel. Finally, he said, “Unlike you, I come home pretty regularly. But I heard you had an episode of some sort at the cathedral and had returned home for the unknown future.” He picked a blueberry out of the scone and murmured, “I wanted to check up on you.”

It sounded reasonable if Michael could be viewed as a concerned older brother, and not obsessed with where Castiel was all the time. Because of that, Castiel was uncertain as to whether or not he could believe his brother.

“I’m fine.”

“I bet.” Michael grinned at him and popped the berry into his mouth, chewing noisily. “Well, if you stay another week, Thanksgiving is probably going to be lonely for you.” He jerked a thumb behind him, indicating the large hall where their rooms were. “Dad and I are flying out to a conference in Maui, and Mom and the twins have decided to visit her family outside Chicago.”

“And Hael is staying in Boston?”

“No, she’s meeting them in Chicago.” Michael wiped his hand on his cloth napkin and stared at Castiel with a near-copy of father’s eyes, just a couple shades paler than Castiel’s and Charles’s.

He wondered if Michael hated him for that too.

Sighing, he smoothed a hand over the cover of his book, scratching idly at the pricing sticker with his fingernail, and said, “It’s fine, I suppose. I can stay here. I just can’t go back yet.” _I haven’t figured out what to do yet._

“You can’t hide here forever, you know?” Michael finished off his coffee, and Jo reappeared to refresh both their cups.

Castiel frowned at his older sibling, who infuriatingly just smiled back. “I’m not hiding,” he pouted.

“Sure you’re not, kiddo.” Michael chuckled and stirred cream into his coffee. There was an awkward pause before Michael cleared his throat and said, “Look, I’m currently wooing someone I hope to bring home to meet the family.”

Startled, Castiel stared at Michael in surprise. A fond smile crept over his brother's face, and Castiel realized that Michael wasn’t faking.

“He’s very stubborn, and he fights me at every turn. It really shouldn’t be as cute as it is.”

“What, he’s not charmed by the Michael persona?” Castiel blinked as he realized he’d said that out loud _and_ very sarcastically, while his brother stared at him with a touch of amusement.

“Well, well, how long have you been keeping _that_ in?”

“I’m sorry, Michael,” he murmured, genuinely repentant. “That wasn’t kind of me.”

“But you _do_ think that,” Michael sighed. “Well, you’re not wrong; he's not impressed. He’s not charmed by my money or prestige. He doesn’t like being bought things or taken nice places.”

To Castiel’s surprise, Michael honestly looked lost. “Why do you want him, Michael?” He asked gently. “He’s not a possession. He’s a person.”

Michael shot him a look and shook his head. “I don’t need ‘tending to,’ Deacon Novak,” he muttered. “He’s beautiful and he smells wonderful. He’s about to hit the height of his breeding age, and he’s a good match, genetically. He’s a superb specimen of a second-level, so he’ll breed me fine Alphas, possibly even a pureblood.”

All these things were constant quiet whispers in Castiel’s own head when he thought about Dean. For some reason, it surprised him that his brother was in the same emotional boat, feeling that pull to breed. Perhaps it was part of being an Alpha?

Michael’s mouth quirked up into an amused smile and he looked into Castiel’s eyes with honesty. “I need a partner who can hold up their end of the family dynasty and can handle the twins. He’s just feisty enough do it.”

Castiel nodded. Michael had a responsibility to have a family of strong pups since Castiel had no intention. “I’m sorry I left you all the work,” he said, sipping his cooling coffee.

Michael shook his head. “You didn’t leave me anything I didn’t want.”

* * *

“So, Castiel, how are you doing, son?”

It was a relief after two weeks of quiet and contemplation to hear Joshua’s voice again. Lying on his bed, doors locked, and hopefully with no listening devices planted in his room (the twins had done that before, trying to get dirt on him), he had finally reached out to Joshua and his wisdom.

“I don’t know,” he replied softly, uncomfortable with how nebulous that sounded. “My body is telling me one thing still, and my mind is yet insisting on another.”

Joshua’s hum vibrated through the phone. “I imagine so.” He paused for a breath and added, “Sam misses you. He asks after you constantly. More so than Kevin or the other parishioners.” Chuckling faintly, Joshua murmured, “That boy has taken a real shine to you, Castiel. It’s a shame you’ve been gone so long.”

Castiel flopped a wrist over his eyes and breathed in deeply. “I miss Sam too.” _And Dean_ , his hateful Alpha whispered. _We miss Dean_. _The smell of caramel apples. We **need** him._

He ignored that inner voice and concentrated on Joshua’s warm voice.

“When are you planning on returning?”

Castiel hesitated. “I-I’m not sure.” Being so far away from Dean was driving his Alpha mad, which only served to make him more nervous. He swallowed hard and murmured. “I…I can’t seem to reconcile my Alpha’s wants against my beliefs.”

Joshua hummed again. “It’s not a win or lose situation, Castiel.”

Petulantly, Castiel snapped, “But it _feels_ like one.”

Sighing, Joshua said, “God did not make a mistake in creating you. You are as you are exactly meant to be. Just open yourself to His Words and remember that, regardless of all else, you are His creation and He loves you.”

Castiel thumped his head back in silent protest, rubbing away the tears that had sprung up at Joshua’s words, his faith still as tattered as the moment he realized he had hurt Dean, that he had physically put hands on the young man. He huffed out a shuddered, “Yes, sir.”

He could feel the kind smile the older Beta offered through the phone. “You’re a good man, Castiel. There’s nothing wrong with feeling lost. Sometimes that’s how we discover who we’re meant to be.”

Castiel managed to not throw his phone across the room but gripped it tightly enough to turn his knuckles white. “Yes, sir.”

“God bless you, son. Please contact me soon so we can arrange your return.”

“Of course. God bless you too.”

When Joshua hung up, the phone went flying, shattering into pieces against the wall and leaving a nasty hole in it.

If Castiel had been a swearing man, he would have sworn bitterly and hopelessly.

* * *

Castiel spent Thanksgiving with Ellen and Jo, laughing about Castiel’s childhood and eating until they were all stuffed.

“You were so serious as a child,” Ellen said, chuckling over her plate. “Jo was running about, destroying things and generally getting into trouble, and you would just quietly sit and watch her wreak havoc.”

Castiel smiled into his mashed potatoes while Jo laughed.

“I remember he never wanted to get in trouble. He was afraid his father would get angry.”

“My father was quite terrifying as a child,” Castiel replied tartly. “You’ve never seen him angry at the twins. I was there when they superglued all his books together, side-by-side, and then put them back into the bookcase. When father tried to pull one out, the whole shelf worth of books fell on him!” He shook his head. “It’s a miracle those two survived to adulthood.”

Ellen nodded. “I remember that. They had to separate all the books and pay to have them rebound.”

Jo grinned. “See, I never got you into that much trouble.”

Castiel scoffed. “I seem to recall an incident with a goat, a set of steak knives, an—“

His story was interrupted by a slim hand slamming over his mouth. “Ix-nay on the oat-Gay!” Jo hissed, flicking her eyes towards Ellen and shaking her head.

Ellen pinned her with a hard stare that had both of the younger adults blanching and shifting away from her. “Joanna Beth, if you don’t think I know what you did to that poor goat, you have another thing coming. If Castiel hadn’t offered to pay for the damage, we might have been thrown out of here!”

Jo shifted brown eyes over to Castiel, who shrugged. “You paid for that? We broke the whole wall!”

Castiel peeled her hand off and said, “It wasn’t like I was using my allowance for anything, anyway. It was fine.”

Guilt flickered over Jo’s face and she shook her head. “You’re too much, Castiel. I don’t know how you’re even related to this family.”

Ellen slapped her upside the head as Castiel laughed. “It’s fine, Ellen. I know what she means.” He shook his head too. “God works in mysterious ways, Jo.”

“Amen to that,” she muttered, rubbing at her head.

All in all, it was one of the most pleasant Thanksgivings he’d had at home in his life.

* * *

First week of December, Castiel went back to St. Thomas. Joshua welcomed him back and didn’t bother him regarding his choices, because the simple fact was Castiel still didn’t know what he wanted to do. He did know he couldn’t hide forever, and taking nearly a month off was ridiculous, even if he was having a crisis of faith.

Joshua was sure to keep Castiel under constant surveillance with Sam, adding Kevin as a buffer and watchman. They were both eager young men, with Kevin contemplating the priesthood for himself. He was only thirteen himself, so Castiel didn’t push the issue or discourage it. If he received The Call, he would know.

Or, at least, _think_ he knew.

Before meeting with Castiel, Sam was always sprayed down with scent neutralizer by Joshua, which Castiel thought was a bit of an overreaction, but considering just Dean’s scent had sent him into an early rut, he supposed that it was fair to take that out of the equation.

Overall, the rest of December was dismally dull, with Dean only working and finishing up the Lark at a distance, and Sam and Kevin keeping Castiel occupied, along with his load of holiday duties, such as organizing food drives, food and warmth packets for the homeless, gift drives for the needy families, volunteering for local soup kitchens, and visiting nearby nursing homes and hospitals to say prayers for the elderly. 

Sometimes, he was required to help give Last Rites [2] with Joshua, and it always bothered him when the person was too young to bear. It struck home that life was fragile, and watching families weep over their departed was gut-wrenchingly painful for him.

The end of December came with the masses for the faithful. As usual, Christmas masses were packed, although Joshua officiated those with Castiel attending. The full choir and the cathedral decked out in poinsettias, with banners of gold and green trim, made the mass feel more magical and touching, and again Castiel felt his faith settle beneath his skin, thrumming warm and comforting as he watched the upturned faces of the devoted from his position from behind the altar.

It was December 28th when Castiel received a call from his mother.

Dina’s voice was excited and happy as she spoke to her youngest son. “Castiel! Michael is bringing home his potential mate! I want you to come home for New Years!”

Sighing, Castiel wondered if the Omega Michael had been pursuing had finally given in. “I will ask if I can take time off. I was gone almost a month, so I’m not sure if I can take more time.”

His mother’s bright voice settled into her stern mom voice as she said, “You will be there, and you will support your brother. He’s nearly 40. It’s more than time for him to settle down.”

“Yes, mother,” he sighed out, exhausted by the thought of enduring his entire family.

“Don’t you take that tone with me, Castiel,” she snapped. “Make sure you have tuxedo made for the event. We’re having friends over as well.”

 _Marvelous_ , he thought, but he soothingly said, “Of course. I’ll be there that evening.”

He hung up the phone and for some reason dread crawled into his gut and stayed there.

* * *

Joshua had given Castiel permission to go for a couple of nights, as it was Clan Business and not just pleasure. Not that practicing being a burrito—all wrapped in his duvet in his bed—was exceptionally pleasurable, but it beat walking around not knowing what to do about His Life.

He dug out his old tuxedo, but it made him uncomfortable, so he decided he would replace the slightly yellowed white shirt with one of his dove gray deacon shirts and, instead of his tie, he’d wear his collar. He didn’t want to hide who he was from anyone or give them any ideas. Surely Michael’s getting mated would take off some of the pressure for Castiel to stop with his 'priest' foolishness and step up to his clan responsibilities.

The flight to Illinois was turbulent and fraught with delay, and it honestly left a foul taste in his mouth. As such, he was in a bad mood when he found a limo waiting for him at the airport, the young man holding a sign with Castiel’s name in neat print and shifting uncomfortably from side-to-side next to the escalators to baggage claim, looking way too young to be a driver.

Castiel walked up to the guy and pointed at the sign. “That’s me,” he said, hefting his carryon bag onto his shoulder. He had put on his heavy pea coat and wrapped a heavier wool scarf around his neck, as he had been intending to just catch a cab.

No such luck.

The guy—a kid, really—stared up at him with wide brown eyes and his bland beta scent, and stuttered, “S-sir! M-madam Novak r-requested that we come fetch you s-so you d-didn’t get stuck on t-the road.”

Suppressing his unkind urge to roll his eyes at his mother’s insistence he use the house resources instead of making his own (commoner) way home, he sighed and nodded.

“Right.” He pointed at his carryon and said, “This is all I have so…”

The kid was staring at him with something (uncomfortably) resembling awe, and Castiel coughed awkwardly and pointed at the doors. “Uh, if we could…?”

Startled, the kid jumped a bit and cleared his throat anxiously, tucking the sign under his arm, and trying to take the bag from Castiel, only to be held off. “I can manage, thank you…?”

Castiel let his voice trail off questioningly, and the young man said, “Ah, Jeffrey, sir! I’m training under Stuart.”

“Right. Of course.” He patted Jeffrey’s shoulder as they walked out to the limo, Stuart sitting behind the wheel and starting to pop out to help when Castiel waved him back into the car, allowing the Jeffery to open the door for him, but not letting him take his bag. The snow was coming down in increasingly thick flurries, and he was happy to get into the warm vehicle.

Sighing, he pinched the bridge of his nose, knowing this deference by the two men was the tip of the iceberg, and it was only going to get worse as the visit progressed. The only thing that might save him was that the focus was on Michael and this new prospective mate.

“Good evening, Mr. Novak! How was your flight?” Stuart had been a chauffeur for the Novaks since Castiel was a child. His gray eyes were kind as he looked back to the passenger’s seating.

Pasting on a smile, Castiel looked up to through the open privacy window and at the rearview mirror. “Horrible. The turbulence was dreadful.”

“I would imagine so, what with the weather so bad.” Stuart nodded wisely. “Well, it’s certainly a pleasure to see you home, sir.”

“Stuart, please just call me Castiel. You’ve known me since I was a child.”

There were twin gasps from the front seat. “Mr. Novak! You’re a pureblood and my clan’s Alpha! I couldn’t do that!”

 _This again_.

Castiel didn’t know why Michael found it so attractive, this blind adoration for position and designation. At the very least, Castiel found it exhausting that people were deferential because he was an Alpha. Adding in the pureblood nonsense, and it was just draining. He didn’t want the attention.

“And yet I put my pants on exactly as you do, Stuart,” he said firmly. “Also, please remember I’m not your Pack-alpha. That’s Michael.”

A stubborn expression flitted over Stuart’s face, and Castiel settled back into his seat and stifled yet another sigh. Even though he had stepped down and away from the Pack-lead position, it was not a decision many of the clan agreed with. It was an old sore point that was constantly revisited by everyone around him.

He looked back up to find Jeffery staring at him from the open window, only to squeak when he realized Castiel had caught him. It was a familiar squeak and generally part of the designation awe. It was simply fatiguing to think that—because he was the pureblood Alpha—they all expected him to throw away everything he wanted to serve the Clan.

To break the awkward silence, he asked, “Has Michael and his intended arrived?”

Jeffery looked back towards him again and said faintly, “They are arriving tomorrow morning, sir. Their plane will arrive at noon.”

Nodding, Castiel pulled out his phone and turned it on. It buzzed lightly, indicating there was a message, and when he looked, there was a missed call from Gabriel.

_Well, I’ll see him soon enough._

He put the phone back in his pocket and forgot about it.

* * *

Dina wasn’t waiting for him _the_ moment he got in, forced by Stuart and Jeffery to go through the front door. The large door practically boomed as Jo opened it. She smiled curtly, and Castiel shook the snow off his head and hugged her against all propriety.

“You’re going to get me in _trouble_ ,” she hissed against his ear.

“Don’t worry about it,” he mumbled back, happy to see her, and releasing her.

“Still overly friendly with the staff, I see.”

Of course, his mother was standing in the hall entrance, staring at them. Castiel shrugged as Jo stood at attention, and said, “Jo and I are as close as Hael and I.”

“If you say so,” she replied with a bit of frost. Dina Novak was still stunningly beautiful in her late fifties. Her blonde hair was swept back into a perfect ponytail and her makeup was exquisite. Even wearing casual wear–albeit designer jeans and a $100 t-shirt–she looked like a model, her long dark lashes and smoky-quartz eyes were sharp over her perfectly straight nose and tiny cleft chin. She was the oldest daughter of the Milton clan, and the only one to give birth to multiple purebloods of any of the clans for decades. Because of that, she was practically venerated among the clans.

Jo quickly shut the door behind Castiel, as he moved forward to kiss his mother on the cheek. She smelled like white flower perfume since, as a Beta, she had no strong personal scent. “Castiel, I’m so happy you made it! I thought you’d make an excuse at the last second.”

“I wouldn’t miss this.”

She smoothed a hand over his damp coat sleeve and said, “Go on and give your coat and bag to Jo. She’ll take care of it. Ellen is in the kitchen, warming something up.” She smiled. “The twins are somewhere in the house. Good luck.”

Dina swanned away and Cas handed his stuff to Jo, who slapped him on the back hard for his troubles. “Told you we’d get in trouble,” she hissed as she walked away with his stuff.

He huffed and wandered to the kitchen for something to eat. Tomorrow was the 31st. It was going to be a long, family filled day.

* * *

The twins were suspiciously absent.

Very suspiciously.

Especially since Gabriel was infamous for being in the exact right place at the precise wrong time. Sometimes the rest of his family suspected he set things up to explode for his entertainment.

Even their mother started to look nervous at the fact they hadn’t shown up for meals.

Hael came home around 3pm and immediately went to take a nap, so Castiel missed seeing her come in. But it didn’t matter, and it was better to hide away anyway, since the house was overly active with people coming in from the outreaches of the Clan to help set up. The next Pack-lead possibly getting a mate was a big deal, especially from outside the clans.

Having hidden in the library for most of the day to get away from all the noise and people, Castiel finally emerged around 5pm and went to go prepare for the evening. It was still pretty early, but the house looked a tad more festive. He was sure the main ballroom would be packed later.

The formal dinner party, primarily family, was going to take forever, and Castiel hoped he would be seated next to his sister, just so he could play catch up while his family fawned on the prospective mate.

Castiel found his tuxedo a touch tight in the shoulders, but he could endure it. His plain gray shirt looked a bit odd under the finer fabric of his tuxedo, but he felt it was fine with the white collar instead of a tie.

He made his way down the hall, managing to hear the twins in Gabriel's room arguing.

"—but if he doesn't know—?"

"Look, there's nothing we can do either way!"

"We should've—"

"Would've, should've, could've."

Gabriel started swearing floridly, and that was Castiel's cue to walk away quickly. Whatever they were fighting about, it was probably best to walk away from it. They rarely fought. It was just something else to make him nervous.

The family was meeting in the large setting room. It was large enough to fit twenty people comfortably, with the art on the walls generally switched out for up-and-coming artists. When he walked in, he found a lovely, if frazzled Hael, being berated by their mother. No one else had yet arrived, and he supposed Hael had just gotten unlucky. Or Dina had specifically waited until Hael was alone to lecture her. He wouldn’t put it past her; the twins had to get their meddlesome nature from somewhere.

"You're not getting any younger yourself, Hael! Soon you'll be past your best reproductive years and you’ll end up an old spinster Beta with 15 cats and nothing else!"

"She'll have me." Castiel interrupted. Hael looked up, her blue eyes lined with navy and black, grateful that someone was diverting their mother as Dina swiveled her head to glower at Castiel. “Mother, you look lovely.” He added dutifully.

And Dina did. Her hair was smoothed over her head and swirled into an elaborate updo, her makeup emphasized her smoky quartz eyes and full lips that most of her children had inherited, the elegant lines of her red dress fit her impeccably, with simple diamond drops at her throat and ears, and her wedding band as her only jewelry.

In comparison, Hael was dressed in a strapless navy gown, platinum collar and small sapphire earrings, keeping it simple. Hael generally hated to dress up, preferring over-sized sweaters that slipped over her fingers as she read and loose jeans to lounge in. But Dina had insisted and Hael looked as uncomfortable in the gown as Castiel did his tuxedo.

“You look lovely too, Hael,” he murmured as he stepped in and hugged her.

“Thanks, Cassy,” she whispered, dropping a kiss on his cheek and then smiling as she wiped off her lipstick imprint. “I’m so happy to see you.”

“Castiel!” His mother hissed. “What the hell are you wearing?”

Hael and Castiel exchanged looks, and Castiel smiled as he turned to face Dina. “I’m wearing the required tuxedo,” he said easily.

“Not with that shirt! I demand you go change into something proper for the occasion.” She looked daggers at his neck and he knew that even after all this time, his collar bothered her. “You’ll embarrass me!”

“Well, then, he can stand with me,” Hael said brightly, smiling at Dina and taking Castiel’s arm.

They strolled away arm-and-arm to check out the new artist (something in abstract florals), but not quite fast enough to miss Dina’s “They’ll be the _death_ of me.”

“Hael, my lovely sister,” Castiel said as they strolled over to a painting of a set of what might have been daffodils, possibly cranky sunflowers. “I haven’t spoken to you in weeks. How are you?”

“I don’t know why I wanted a PhD,” she groused. “I’m constantly stressed, my diet is coffee and bad snacks, my skin looks like I’m in my 40s, and I haven’t gotten laid in more months than I care to admit.”

“Little sis, this isn’t a confessional,” came an amused voice behind them. They turned to find Gabriel and Lucifer had made their entrance and had already escaped from their mother, who was now scolding Charles about his dark hair (which was a bit messy, but not that bad).

Castiel didn’t know how such a small, messy pureblood Alpha like his father could look so ineffective and mousy, but still put the fear of God into people. But Charles _smelled_ like pure ozone and it was a constant pressure, like the tense air right before a giant storm, that surrounded him and made him—mild mannered or not—terrifying. Even in his perfect tuxedo, he just looked small at 5’8” next to his looming wife, with his downcast blue eyes and nervous demeanor, and not like the leader of a noble clan.

“Luci! Gabe!” Hael slipped away from Castiel and hugged the twins. As she released them, Gabriel shifted uncomfortably, but Lucifer smiled broadly at Castiel.

“So, Cassy, have you met Michael’s intended yet? He’s quite the looker.”

Gabe hummed and added. “I hadn’t realized he was a second-level. He’ll be able to give Mikey lots of pups. After all, that’s the point right? Cement the succession before Cassy here decides to change his mind and be the new pit boss?”

Castiel frowned at the insinuation. “I’m not going to change my mind.”

Lucifer grinned wickedly while Gabriel sighed, glaring at his twin.

“Oh I think we’ll see about that,” Lucifer said smoothly, angling himself next to Castiel’s elbow so he could watch the door. Gabriel frowned at him, but angled himself to Castiel’s left, motioning for Hael to move next to him.

Castiel opened his mouth to ask what they were doing when the door opened again to admit Michael, who seemed to be pulling someone behind him. He was obviously holding the person’s hand and, all the way from the door, the scent of caramel apples trickled in.

Castiel froze, his heart in his throat. _No. There’s no possible way._

Michael grinned charmingly, dropped a kiss on the man’s knuckles, and pulled a handsome young Omega, with dirty-blond hair and bright-green eyes, into the room. The Omega looked uncomfortable although the tuxedo fit him perfectly, the peridot-green vest and tie glimmering faintly.

He was frankly beautiful, almost haloed in the refracted light of the room’s tiny chandelier, but all Castiel could think was _what the hell is Dean doing here??_

The collar he was wearing suddenly felt too tight, as Castiel watched Michael introduce Dean to their mother, who cooed over him and was pouring on the compliments, while their father shifted anxiously from foot-to-foot.

“He really is quite lovely,” murmured Hael. Castiel breathed in the wisps of her soft rose perfume as he watched Dean shake hands with Charles and laugh at whatever joke Charles had said to make Dina pinch her lips together with disapproval.

“Indeed,” Lucifer replied, moving a bit closer to Castiel. Cardamom and star anise joined the rose, and then an anxious thread of lemon shot through Gabriel’s gingerbread scent.

As they watched the group only 10-feet away, Michael’s hand slid over Dean’s back to settle in the curve of his waist, subtly marking him. Dean didn’t lean into it, but he didn’t dispute it being there either, his scent the sweet caramel apples it had always been.

Disbelief did not begin to cover what Castiel was feeling. The once-spacious room was now small and confining, and Castiel had to stop himself from reaching up to yank his collar off and loosen a button, his breath coming in small, panicked pants.

“Cassy, you okay there, buddy?”

Although Castiel heard Gabriel, it was as if he were speaking from very far away and down a long, empty hallway. _What is Dean doing here? With Michael..??_

“Cassy, you need to snap out of it. They’re about done with introductions.”

The delicate scent of caramel apples tickled his nose even stronger by being trapped in the room, the aroma as crisp as the October day he had met Dean as Michael and Dean turned toward the siblings. The desire in his belly flamed up, and Castiel turned on his heel and gripped the Queen Anne cherry wood side table behind them, trying to ignore the hot possessive anger that bubbled in his chest and the Alpha in his head that was howling bloody murder. _Mine! Mine mine **mine**!_

Behind him, he heard a faint gasp and, “Oh shit.” Chocolate and cinnamon subtly mixed into Dean’s scent, and Castiel wondered callously if Michael could even smell it, the hint of rebellion that his (no, **NO**!) Omega was feeling.

But then Michael was talking to their siblings. “So, Dean, darling, these are my brothers, the twins, Lucifer and Gabriel. Stay far away from them, they’re trouble incarnate. And this is my lovely sister, Hael. She’s in graduate school so we don’t see her very often.”

The trio extended their greetings, and there was a crack like a gunshot as the edge of the antique side table gave up under Castiel’s grip. Someone tugged on his arm, and he turned, determined to keep himself in check, positive his Alpha was swirling too closely to the surface for it to be safe.

He heard Hael’s voice introduce him, but his gaze was caught by Dean’s stunned one. The stink of aggression oozed off Castiel and Michael gave him a concerned look, all while edging in front of Dean. Behind him, Dean’s eyes dilated and his pink lips parted with surprise. The faintest hint of cinnamon pralines threaded through his scent, the scent of his arousal, and some part of Castiel’s Alpha brain grabbed it and held on to it. Could Michael scent it?

Michael’s face was normal, but the twins shared a look and side-eyed Castiel. Dean colored prettily and ducked his head, shifting closer to Michael, whose arm wrapped around him.

If possible, it made things worse, and only Lucifer’s firm grip on Castiel’s bicep kept him from just attacking Michael right there. _How dare he touch **my** mate. He’s **mine**!_

Instead, Castiel grit his teeth and forced a smile. “Oh, yes. Dean and I know each other quite well. His brother is an altar boy at St. Thomas.” He forced himself to turn towards Lucifer, who actually cringed at whatever was burning in Castiel’s eyes. “His brother is a good kid. I believe he wants to be a lawyer like you, Lucifer. Perhaps you can chat with him sometime?”

Lucifer narrowed his eyes before lowering them submissively, unable to hold Castiel’s Alpha gaze. “Of course, Cassy. If you want me to.”

A dark laugh barked out of Castiel and he turned to smile bitterly at Michael, who was still holding Dean by the waist, warily watching his baby brother with Alpha red swirling through his own eyes. Michael was also starting to stink up the place, the choking sour odor of rotten seaweed fogging around him, while Dean was definitely starting to smell distressed instead of aroused, sharp and acrid in Castiel’s nose. Both scents were eating into Castiel’s control, and he gripped his anger with every fiber of his pride to hold it together.

“If you excuse me, I need to wash my hands,” Castiel murmured through gritted teeth.

Like the Red Sea, they parted before him, not even his parents giving him trouble as he stalked out the door, undoubtedly stinking heavily of aggression and possessiveness. He somehow got to the bathroom on autopilot, only to be surprised he was still holding a huge hunk of the cherry side table in his grip, the tips of his fingers already changed to murderous claws and lodged in the wood.

Sighing, he forced himself to release his grip and dropped the foot-long piece of antique carpentry into the trash can, the punctures from the splinters bleeding onto the white marble of the sink. He rinsed his hand and washed his face. He had to control himself. He wasn’t a beast.

And he had already chosen the Church. He had decided.

Castiel looked up into the mirror, his incisors lengthened by his perceived threat, ready to rend Michael, _his own brother_ , into so much meat for touching what was _his_.

What _wasn’t_ his.

He got control of himself and tried to soothe his inner beast. If Dean wanted to become the First Mate of the Novak Clan, there was nothing he could do about it.

Castiel had chosen God.

He had to let Dean go.

If Michael mated Dean, though, he would have to watch them together until either he died or Dean died. Watch them touching each other all the time, watch them get married. Watch them have _children_ together. If he really wanted better for Dean, he was going to have to tolerate it.

His incisors bit into his lower lip as his stomach twisted inside him, his heart beating too fast, all while his lungs felt like they were locking up.

He didn’t _want_ to endure it. He wanted Michael’s _blood_ on his tongue for daring to touch Dean. For touching what was _his_ , Castiel’s. _His_ mate. Who would bear _his_ children. _Not_ Michael’s.

There was a knock on the door, which he ignored, and a muffled, “Cassy? You okay? I can hear you growling in there.”

Gabriel. Castiel looked into the mirror and his eyes were burning Alpha red in a way he had never seen before, his skin rippling with the change just under it. He looked murderous and beastly, his incisors having raised blood and stained his lips and teeth. Gabriel was right; a low growl was rumbling darkly out of his chest as he tried to control himself and he had even somehow managed to gouge the sink’s marble counter when he had curled his hands into fists, the white stone already splattered with drops of his blood.

A reasonable person, a _rational_ person did not look like they had just stepped out of the woods after killing prey and rending it into so much meat. The entire look was somehow more barbaric by the white collar speckled by his own blood, desecrated by his own desires.

“Cassy, you okay?”

 _Ah, Gabriel_. Castiel tried to pull himself together and turned to open the door. A pale-faced Gabriel stood there, going even paler when the stuffy stench of Alpha rage hit him fully in the face. He actually swayed on his feet from the pong and subconsciously bore his neck and lowered his eyes submissively, something he had never done for anyone except their father, as far as Castiel knew.

He felt bad.

“My apologies, brother,” he said, Gabriel’s reaction striking home how overwhelmingly unacceptable his response had been. “I… I just wasn’t prepared to see…” Castiel swallowed hard and he worked his dry throat for the words. “I didn’t know…Michael’s prospective mate was…”

“Your mate.” Gabriel nodded. “I know, kid.”

Castiel sharpened his gaze and Gabriel shrugged. “Michael kept bragging about the guy. How many gorgeous, male Omegas who work in a bar and smell like caramel could there possibly be in podunk Lawrence, Kansas?”

Castiel stared icily at him, and Gabriel raised his hands defensively. “I was going to warn you, but Lucifer suggested you just deal with it because it’s possible this will be the rest of your life.”

He stilled at the words being said from outside his head; Castiel briefly flashed over the next twenty to thirty years of his life watching Michael _grope_ and _breed_ **his** mate, the only one who had ever made him—made Castiel— _feel_ things he had thought himself immune to, made him finally think he was not defective and broken for his lack of Alpha traits or desire. The taste of chocolate and cinnamon pralines on his tongue flittered through his mind, and his penis gave an interested and demanding twitch to find Dean and _mate_ him.

Shaking his head, Castiel came to himself to find, one, Gabriel had backed _far_ away from the door and, two, that he had gripped the door jamb so hard, there were claw marks indenting the wood. Taking a shuddering breath, he released his grip one finger at a time and massaged his left hand.

Mentally, Castiel chided himself. He had only ever used his Alpha strength for good things before Dean had come into his life. Now, just the thought of another alpha— _any_ alpha—near the Omega was making him crazy to the point his Alpha uncontrollably surged forward time after time.

Defeat filtered through him as he realized the complete lack of urges he had always been so proud of was now a distinct disadvantage. Other Alphas had had _years_ to learn how to control their urges and strength. The past few months were obviously just not enough to master them, no matter how much he tried to convince himself he was not a beast: his inner monster was trying to prove him wrong.

“I don’t know what to do, brother,” Castiel whispered hoarsely, trying to hold back his despair. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

Gabriel sighed and cautiously reached out a hand, pulling Castiel in to scent their familial bonds and relax.

“First off all,” he replied slowly, petting the back of Castiel’s head as he wheezed wetly into Gabriel's neck. “We get you a new shirt. That one looks like you’ve been battling vampires. And losing. Badly. Second of all, you straighten your back and be proud of your choices. You can control yourself. You’re Castiel, android extraordinaire!”

Sniffling, Castiel stood up straight and smacked Gabriel lightly. “You’re a menace to humanity,” he muttered, sighing soggily with his next breath. “I’ll go change. I might have to borrow one of Lucifer’s shirts though.”

Gabriel shrugged. “He’ll live. Go take that off and I’ll get you a new shirt.” He reached up and ruffled Castiel’s hair affectionately. “You can do this.”

With his Alpha roaring madly and clawing to take control under his skin, Castiel wasn’t so certain. 

* * *

 

* * *

 

[1] The Call: The Call is generally what people call the “voice” of God asking them to service. I don’t think it’s a real and actual voice, but a feeling of “this is what I’m meant to do.”

[2] Last Rites: in case you don’t know, when someone is dying, they are given the last confession and all their sins are forgiven. This is sometimes considered the last ditch effort to gain forgiveness before being tossed into Hell because if you die while your sins are forgiven, then you have a guilt-free pass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Betas and scent** : Betas don’t have strong scents themselves. They do have one, if you’re a pureblood and able to sniff them out, but they mostly do not.
> 
>  **Their Noses** : Second-level and pureblood Betas can scent others better than a third-level anything, but it’s still about half the sniffer of any other designation second-level or above. Alphas and omegas have good sniffers because they need it to sense each other, for hunting, and for danger. That’s the reason why Beta-2s have the enhanced nose that’s just not as sensitive. The more diluted the bloodline, the weaker overall the genetics for this.
> 
> * * *
> 
>  **Scents** : If some of you are wondering why the scents change according to who is sniffing, it's because of the strength of their sniffers and their designation. So, Michael (Alpha-2) smells the caramel, but not the apples (this part is only Cas), and if Cas (Alpha-1) smells the enhanced scent of linen, Michael only gets cotton. Joshua (Beta-2) only got brown sugar and cotton. Charles (Alpha-1) will smell caramel and linen, but not apples. 
> 
> So that's why.  
> 
> 
> * * *
> 
>  **Deacons and Mass** : So I just found out that Deacons cannot say mass, but it's my AU so I'm sticking with transitional ones can. Layman ones cannot. That's what I thought when I was originally writing this. Oops. Well, there will be more Catholic "rule" breaking as we go on, although I will try my hardest to be (HA HA) faithful. Castiel will not be taking confession because Deacons cannot, which means a few things... but yeah. RULE BREAKING: Transitional deacons can say mass! Look at me rebel!
> 
> * * *
> 
> Before anyone asks me why Dean didn't scent Cas's presence...
> 
>   
>    
> 


	8. Deep down I know this never works

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam gets some ideas. Dean deals with things. Maybe Michael isn't that much of a douche... maybe?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of things: I'm sorry that it's taken _months_ to update. I feel very guilty about that; however, IRL has been kicking my butt in terms of medical issues and just everyday crap, so please bear with me. I'll update again soon. 
> 
> This was HELLA long and so broken into parts (it's still hella long). Yep. Partly to keep the chapters marginally short. Partly to stop me from flipping out. So please bear with me as Dean occupies WAAAAAY too much space and time… :P
> 
> Thanks to [ShippersList](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ShippersList/pseuds/ShippersList) and [Stkirsch](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Stkirsch/pseuds/Stkirsch) for their support and beta/alpha powers!
> 
> Things of Note: 1) I’m very aware of allegations against Catholic priests for molestation and such, and I suspect this is more of a US fixation on it. I don’t approve of the way the Church handles it, and I am hoping it is reflected in this chapter. Those men should be tried by jury and put away, not hidden by the Vatican. Anyway, “Spotlight” (2015) was a really good movie if you’re interested in Catholic priests and how the church handled their “broken” priests. (It’s a fancy docudrama, so you have to like that format…)
> 
> 2) Bela is OOC. I know she is. She will be more IN character later, but I want to illustrate how much she wants this. ;)
> 
> Finally, title taken from [Sam Smith's Stay with Me](https://youtu.be/pB-5XG-DbAA).

**Sam**

Although Dean still thought Sam was a baby, Sam wasn’t. He was nearly grown-up and he knew what was going on. Seriously, they had had sex ed earlier in the year, and Sam didn’t know why Dean didn’t remember signing Dad’s name to the slip.

Why else would Dean even allow Deacon Castiel to hold him against the car and kiss him unless he liked him?

In fact, they had been like that since the beginning, hadn’t they? Both of them riled and upset at something Sam couldn’t really sense, since, as he was still unpresented, his olfactory abilities were sadly worse than a beta. He could scent family, distress, and anger, but _nuances_ escaped him.

Still, the fact that Dean thought that his overpowering _sad_ scent was hidden from Sam was ridiculous. Sam had never smelled Dean _reeking_ of despair like he did as soon as they had gotten away from the rectory. It was bad enough that even Sam understood that something momentous had happened, even if he hadn’t really seen what it was.

But when they got back to the trailer, Dean had quietly warmed up some leftover spaghetti for Sam and then went to bed without eating. He had even called in sick to work, and that was big.

Dean took work very seriously.

Whatever was going through his head was a Big Deal.

So, Sam ate his spaghetti and thought on it. His pamphlets from school talking about “The Pull to Mate: How to Know They’re the One” were more about celibacy and abstinence, so if you find The One you’d be pure for them. Sam didn’t understand why that was an issue, but whatever. The point was, the pamphlet mentioned _aggressive behaviors_ and _touching_ being things to watch for. Sam was pretty sure that kissing was one of those Things.

He wished he knew someone he could talk to, but the two people he might have tried to speak with were both part of the problem.

Sighing, he cleaned his plates and made sure there was enough in case Dean got up hungry, brushing his teeth well, and crawling into bed to think some more.

By the time he fell asleep, he had decided to ask Joshua what to do.

* * *

The problem with Sam’s plan was that Dean didn’t like him to walk to the church on his own. Apparently, whatever had happened with all those alphas had confirmed something in Dean’s head about letting Sam wander about alone. Sam had heard the word ‘Heat’ mentioned, so he supposed that those assholes had been high. (It didn’t take a genius to figure this out.)

He decided to skip classes, because he just didn’t understand what was going on and this seemed important somehow. Dean didn’t act like that ever, and if Sam needed to lie to Dean to help him, then so be it. Even if that meant sneaking into Dean’s room at 7am and turning off his phone because the school was going to call him about Sam being absent. He’d try and delete the voicemail later, if he could figure out the phone lock, but Sam was betting on it being [IMPALA]. 

Sam waited around the table to see if Dean was going to come out at all, but apparently not.  So, Sam checked on Dean at like 9 am and saw he was still passed the fuck out, and then quietly snuck out of the Bunker to visit Joshua.

Keeping his head down and practically running, he arrived at the rectory and noticed it seemed quieter than usual.

He had to knock on the door a few times before a tired looking Joshua finally opened it, releasing a puff of warm air that felt good on Sam’s cold face.

“Well, Sam! What are you doing here? It’s not Thursday.” Joshua held the door open while he scratched absently at his tummy. Today’s sweater was white with red triangles and blue squares, his priest collar and black shirt visible at the neck.

“C-can I come in?” It was cold at 930 am. Dean had been talking about taking him to buy a new coat and gloves (his old ones had ripped and didn’t fit over his now-bigger hands) but it hadn’t happened quite yet and he wasn’t even sure where Dean was going to get the money for it. But with his wrists sticking out and not being able to wear a lot of layers because his coat was a bit small… Sam was definitely freezing his ass off.

“Oh! Oh, certainly! Let’s make you some cocoa!”

Sam pushed by the bishop, his teeth chattered uncomfortably as his body tried to come to terms with the difference in temperature. “It’s so cold outside,” he muttered. “It wasn’t even half this cold yesterday!”

Joshua nodded. “We’re closer to the end of November than the beginning. It was going to snap at some point.”

Shivering, Sam took off his coat, scarf, and beanie, handing them to Joshua to hang on the peg by the door, and then followed the bishop into the kitchen. He took a seat at the table, while Joshua put water in the kettle and set it to warm on the stove, and then reached for the hot cocoa mix in the cabinet.

“Now, what brings you here when you should be in school, young man?” He asked, taking the seat opposite Sam.

Sam hunched a bit in his seat. Now that he was here, he was uncertain.

“I’m not stupid!” He blurted, picking at the frayed edge of his flannel shirt cuff. “I know there’s something going on between Dean and Deacon Castiel! They… they were _kissing_ and even a kid’s gotta know that means _something._ ”

Joshua smiled at him, his eyes twinkling with amusement and fondness. “Indeed, kissing does generally mean something. It means they are attracted to each other if nothing else.”

Sam chewed his bottom lip anxiously. “But… Deacon Castiel is going to be a priest. He can’t… he’s not _supposed_ to want sex!”

Joshua chuckled lightly and stood up as the kettle started to whistle faintly. “Sam, priests might be dedicated to God, but they are still only men. The point is, we are tempted. Just like any other being on the planet, we are tempted. The difference should be our ability to resist that temptation.”

He poured the packet of cocoa mix into a mug and stirred in the water. “There are many, many priests out there who fail. They fall in love, they have sex, they are addicted to drugs or alcohol, they do bad things…” He paused in his stirring for a moment, back still to Sam. “They are simply unable to hold out against temptation and they fall.”

Awkwardly, Joshua put the mug in front of Sam, the spoon jingling against the rim as he set it down. Then, as he took his own seat across from him, he regarded the young man gripping the hot mug and letting the steam warm his face. “The clergy is fallible because we are just men. But because of that, when the clergy fails to maintain their vows and break moral and even social laws, they should be punished for them.” Joshua’s lips tightened angrily, the muscles around his eyes tensed, as if he’s thinking about something in particular.

Hazarding a guess, Sam asked, “You mean, they touch kids?”

Startled, Joshua asked, “Did someone touch you?”

Blinking, Sam snorted, “No!”

He idly took his spoon and stirred the cocoa. “I mean, Dean freaks out about priests. Sure, Pastor Jim was a good guy, and so is Deacon Castiel, but Dean said there were a lot of not-so-good priests and he told me to tell him if anyone tried to touch me in weird ways.”

Sadness fell on Joshua, and his shoulders slumped slightly as he nodded. “Priests who touch young people like that are _not_ priests. They are barely men and should be prosecuted by man’s law.” He rubbed his nose and sighed heavily. “The fact is, Sam, if _anyone_ touches you like that, report it immediately. No matter what they say to make it acceptable, it’s not.”

Sam cleared his throat and quietly asked, “Is… Deacon Castiel going to be in trouble? For touching Dean?”

Joshua smiled softly and shook his head, leaning in conspiratorially. “Sam, I’m going to tell you something. Do you know what ‘true mates’ are?”

Sam arched an eyebrow like Joshua thought he was stupid. “You mean like those crappy romance movies? Like _Sleepless in Seattle_? Or that stupid _An Affair to Remember_ that girls like to talk about?”

Joshua chuckled and nodded. “Exactly that.”

“What about them?” Sam asked suspiciously. Then his brain caught up and he blurted, “Oh shit! Do you think they’re _true mates?_ That's a like…a billion in one shot!”

Joshua frowned reprovingly at the swear word, and Sam slapped a repentant hand over his mouth. “Sorry,” he whispered between his fingers. “I just got excited.”

“Well, I understand the shock,” Joshua murmured. “And I believe they are indeed.”

Sam started to feel panic along his nerves. “Then… were we wrong to stop them?”

Joshua hummed and looked down at his hands where he was scratching into the wood with an anxious fingernail. “Castiel wasn’t himself. I don’t think he would have accepted doing that to Dean. That was his wolf riding him, and he’s never in his life lost control as much or as often as he has when it comes to Dean.”

“Is that why he ran away?” Sam added, “Dean locked himself in his room. He didn’t even go to work and he won’t let me in to talk.”

“He probably isn’t comfortable with it, Sam. Don’t take it personally.” Joshua raked a hand over his close-cut graying hair and sighed heavily. “Castiel went home, I presume to deal with his feelings, so I don’t know what he’s thinking at all.”

He smirked, a low sardonic chuckle coming from his chest. “But I _do_ know for certain that Dean has gotten under Castiel’s skin. That man…” He paused and shook his head. “He has to figure it out for himself, Sam. I can’t be involved because he’ll yield to what he thinks _I_ want, and I want him to be happy in his choices. Otherwise, he’ll spend the next 30 years of his life quietly unhappy and wondering ‘what if’? And that’s no life for anyone, even a Man of the Cloth.”

Sam thought about it a moment, about living twice the amount of time he’d actually even been on this planet just wondering what might have been, and shuddered. He realized the catch and exclaimed, “But what if he chooses the Church? Dean will be unhappy.”

Joshua shrugged slightly, looking sad. Gently, he murmured, “Sam, I’m not God. I don’t have all the answers, and I don’t know what His plan may be. I’m just a simple gardener. I can sow the seeds, even water them, but I can’t force them to grow. I just listen to Him and try to make the best choices. I don’t have the power to do more than that.”

Sam slumped in his seat, hands still wrapped around the steaming mug, frowning ferociously. “Well that sucks,” he muttered bitterly.

Joshua nodded. “It really does.”

**Dean**

It took Dean days to soothe his Omega. It whined piteously in his head, writhing in despair that they had been rejected. It was like actual claws ripping through his innards and Dean wondered if this was what the change felt like: to have their wolf rip out of their bodies, violent and bloody.

He tolerated the pain, but he was just unable to _force_ himself out of bed because he was afraid of his own body, afraid of how much his Omega screamed and yowled for its Alpha. It scratched and bit at his psyche, making Dean miserable physically, mentally, and emotionally. It split his head with a hideous migraine and made him vomit out bile and foam into his trash can. He suffered from a horrible fever that froze him to the bone then felt like he was being napalmed from the inside out. It was worse than any heat he had ever endured, but there was no sexual desire, just pain and disorientation.

By the third day, it felt almost like his Omega had slipped into a coma. The quiet in his head was unnerving. He was, on a daily basis, used to his Omega being a soft presence. If he were a religious man, Dean would’ve said like a guardian angel on his shoulder all the time. But now everything felt muffled and distant. Even worse, he woke up and realized he couldn’t smell anything properly. Everything smelled gray and musty. It was terrifying to someone who lived on their ability to scent.

His nose was dead.

Regardless of his feelings or his dead nose, he got himself up for work and made a muted dinner for Sam, who was giving him sad, puppy eyes that Dean tried to ignore. Because he couldn’t smell it, he apparently had added too much garlic salt to the steak he had made for Sam, who scraped some off and tried not to blame Dean. Dean couldn’t tell him that he couldn’t scent him. That hurt the worst: he couldn’t smell Sam, but he waiting until he was in the shower to let the misery rain down on him.

Work was work.

He had a few customers, but his scent was apparently off and they quickly fled. When Crowley showed up and took a sniff, he wasn’t happy. “Jesus fucking Christ, Squirrel! What the hell happened to you? You stink like rusting tin and burnt sheets!”

Dean blinked, surprised he even still had a scent. “I-I…” he stuttered.

Crowley scowled. “You smell rejected. Were you _rejected?”_

Dean swallowed hard and tried to hold Crowley’s dark gaze. A warm hand came up from behind and landed on his shoulder. “Don’t be so hard on him, Crowley. He’s obviously been through a lot.”

Turning grateful eyes on Benny, ignoring the slight wrinkling of Benny’s nose and watering of his eyes, Dean blinked back tears and tried not to stink like distressed, _rejected_ Omega.

“I don’t give a rutting tinker’s damn if he’s run the bloody shores of Normandy! That stink is going to ruin my business!” Crowley snorted as if he were trying to clear his sinuses. “Now get your foul arse out of here, and don’t come back til you’re fixed.”

“A-are you _firing_ me?” Dean felt the floor sway under his feet. He was rejected, he couldn’t smell anything, and he was being _fired_. “I need this job, Crowley! I can’t live without it!”

Crowley shrugged. “Like I said, get rid of that stench and we’ll talk.” He sniffed and impolitely pulled out his handkerchief and covered his nose. “You smell like hell to me, and I don’t have the most sensitive nose.”

Dean looked back to Benny, but the Alpha had moved about 10 feet away, looking sheepish and shrugging.

_That bad, huh?_

Dean sighed. “Fine. I’ll go home. Our contract?”

Crowley noticeably grinned under the handkerchief, pushing him towards what used to be his room. “Don’t worry about it, champ! The money that came in from your excursions with Novak covered that. He was going to buy you out anyway!” He backed up a few steps and grumbled, “Honestly, I really just need you off the premises. I’m going to have to get this place de-scented and scrubbed down.”

Giving Crowley a hairy eyeball, Dean slunk back into his room and started packing his stuff. It was mostly his roleplay gear (sexy nurse, sexy maid, sexy cop, naughty schoolboy, navy uniform… it took all kinds) and some toys his clients enjoyed, but nothing hardcore like the Lilith’s dungeon upstairs. They were investments, though, so he took them.

When he emerged, Benny was sheepishly standing a few feet from the door. Dean rolled his eyes and hefted his gym bag of goods.

“Gotta walk you out, brother,” Benny said, obviously breathing through his mouth.

Sighing heavily, Dean nodded and just waltzed ahead of Benny, ignoring the others as heads popped out to see what was going on, and Meg’s muffled yell of, “ _For fuck’s sake, just toss him out the window already_!”

“Fuck off, Meg!” Dean shouted back, flipping her the bird, even if she couldn’t see it.

“Ignore her.” Benny said from his position, still a good 10-feet back.

“Fuck you too, Benny,” he snarled, flipping Benny the bird too.

At the door, some of the patrons waiting to get into HELL parted the line and someone choked out, “Oh my god, what the fuck _died_?!”

Ducking his head and making a run for his car, Dean tried to ignore all the sounds of gagging and disgust. He couldn’t smell a thing. Not himself. Not anyone else.

He unlocked the Impala, tossed his bag onto the bench, and slid into the driver’s seat, knocking his head wearily against the steering wheel. “Fuck…” he whispered, tears welling up. Frustration surged through him and he slammed his fist against the steering wheel a couple of times, snarling, “Fuck, _fuck_ , **_fuck_** , **_FUCK!!_** ”

He choked back his tears, and knocked his head against the steering wheel, wrapping his arms around it, holding on like it was life or death. After a moment, with the sound of the city breathing heavily into the silent car, he whispered, “I’m so sorry, Baby. I didn’t mean it.”

Sniffling hard, Dean swiped at his malfunctioning nose and forced himself to concentrate on getting home.

Although he had returned early, Sam was already in bed, so Dean showered with scent blockers, took his suppressants and oral scent blockers, and prayed that by morning he didn’t smell as rank.

 _In the morning_ , he thought tiredly, pulling the scentless blanket over his head. _I’ll think about it all in the morning._

* * *

The thing about not being able to smell anything was that it was like suddenly being struck blind. Add that he had to double his scent blockers because they wore off quickly (if the sniffing in his direction and the expressions of disgust were anything to go by), and he was now often a blind spot in a room. People would _see_ him with their eyes, but they couldn’t smell him at all. Most of the time, even with scent blockers, some scent filtered through. But Dean had started spritzing himself down with scent neutralizers because he didn’t think he could stand another day of people gagging and kids staring at him like he was Quasimodo. That’s what happened when he forgot to take an early dose of scent blockers.

Being _rejected_ was a rare thing. Considering finding your mate was rare, finding your True Mate was even rarer. The odds of crossing their path was practically on the level with old wives’ tales. So it wasn’t surprising that most people had never met anyone who had found their mate and been rejected by them. It was unheard of.

Then again, most people met their mates in sensible ways. They met people who smelled and looked nice; they dated for a while and got to know them; they mated them officially after they had properly synced up, and they had fallen in love (or whatever). The crap Dean was going through with Cas was unreal and fucking stupid.

Fucking _stupid_.

He hadn’t even been looking for a mate, for fuck’s sake! And now he was _rejected_!

The simmering anger in his gut, he had to admit, was a lot better than the self-pity he had been suffering from. The fact Sam had worried enough about him to skip a day at school just to watch over his ass had made Dean feel guilty enough to get out of bed and moving.

And he did move because even if he were curled in bed, miserable and _rejected_ , the world kept rambling on, the small pile of post-its on the door getting larger and larger.

Damn Mrs. Green anyway.

So Dean spent his time between taking care of Sam and fixing things around the trailer park. Screen doors that had fallen off, satellite dishes that had been knocked loose, windows that had somehow gotten stuck… he did it all.

It wasn’t enough, though.

November slowly started to fade into December, Dean felt panic start to raise its ugly head that, one, he hadn’t found a new job, and two, he was dipping into his savings to cover rent. There was no sign of Cas coming back either, which was really depressing, although he tried not to show it. Worst of all, his sense of smell hadn’t returned, but at least the stench of _rejection_ was starting to wear off a bit. That or he was just getting used to all the scent blockers and neutralizers.

They spent Thanksgiving with Missouri, who had made an impressive spread, including a delicious sweet potato pie and banana pudding. Or Dean assumed they were delicious. He couldn’t taste anything, another annoying side-effect.

Even worse was the fact Missouri had been giving him the side-eye all evening, and Dean was dreading being alone with her.

Then that traitor Sammy fell into a food coma on Missouri’s comfortable couch, and it was game and match.

“Dean, why are you moping so much? What’s gotten into you?”

Dean looked up from the casserole dish he had been washing to blink owlishly at Missouri. Missouri was not a tall woman, but she was very intimidating in every other way, especially for just being a third-level beta. Dean often felt she could read his mind, and he swallowed nervously when she narrowed her eyes at him. It was scarier than a pack of alphas staring at him like he was meat on a hook.

“Uh—nothing’s wrong. Really.”

She shut her eyes and shook her head at the ceiling like she was praying for his soul because the Lord apparently knew Dean was hopeless. He was sure Missouri reminded Him often enough.

When she finished her little prayer, she scowled over at Dean and said, “Boy, the Good Lord didn’t make you like that to desert you in your time of need. You need to have faith. Thing’s’ll turn out. You’ll see.” She smiled secretly as she walked past him, smacking him on the arm. “You might even be surprised. Now, c’mon. Let’s pack you and Sam somethin’ to take home for tomorrow. One less worry on your shoulders.”

Dean took it, because one less worry was awesome. And especially because it was Missouri’s leftover sweet potato _pie_ …even if he couldn’t taste it, it was a comforting bit of affection from the beta.

* * *

The day after Thanksgiving, Sam and Dean were watching _The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug_ , when someone knocked on their door.

Dean frowned at the interruption, and told Sam to keep watching. “I’ll be a second,” he murmured.

Running a hand through his hair absently, he peered out of the window to see a fancy Mercedes sitting next to his baby. Internally he groaned because he had a suspicion of who had landed on his doorstep. He paused to jump into the bathroom and spritz himself down with scent neutralizer, although he was still taking the pills to keep the stench down because he didn’t want to accidently kill Sam with his stink.

Dean yanked open the door and, sure enough, Michael Novak was eyeing the place like he had never seen a trailer park in his life. Knowing Michael, he probably never had.

“What are you doing here?” Dean hissed, stepping out onto the deck and closing the door firmly behind him. There were few things as surreal as standing in his Batman pajama bottoms, gray Led Zeppelin t-shirt, and slippers on the trailer’s tiny porch in late November. A small breeze curled around them, and Dean shivered violently, annoyed that he had been forced from the two-layers of blankets he and Sam had pulled around themselves to watch cozy and warm inside.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Michael said with a smile, smug in his fancy double-breasted pea coat, leather gloves, with a navy scarf and beanie making him look handsome and snug. He walked back up the porch steps confidently, certain Dean wanted him there. “Crowley told me he had to let you go due to some… health issues. I got him to give me your address…” He frowned slightly, sniffing, and Dean was relieved he had spritzed himself. “Are… you alright?”

Dean shuddered again with the cold and ran his hands over his arms. Michael’s frown intensified and he pulled off his coat and offered it to Dean. Dean eyed it. Michael was still wearing a corded dark gray sweater that looked very warm, so Dean took the coat and slipped it on, relieved by the still-trapped warmth.

“I… I was…not feeling well,” Dean said hesitantly. His nose was still dead; he suspected that if he got off the suppressant and scent blockers, he’d stink like a rotting fish in mid-summer.

Michael tilted his head and squinted at him faintly, and Dean blinked because it was a familiar motion that he couldn’t quite place. “I see. Have you seen a doctor? I could take you to see my internist. He’s a good fellow…”

Shaking his head, Dean replied, “Nah. I don’t got the money for that. I’m good.”

Michael stared at him a moment and chuckled. “I didn’t mean it to sound petty. I meant…” He took a deep breath in and sighed out a wispy cloud. “I want you to get better. It’s important to me.” He reached out a hand and took Dean’s out of the comforts of the coat pocket, wrapping his fingers around Dean’s.

“I want you to be healthy. For… you.” His fingers tightened briefly and Dean hid a wince as Michael added, “I want to take care of you. Please let me help you.”

Blue eyes looked pleadingly into Dean’s, and he sighed because he was just bad with the puppy eyes. His resistance was low. He needed to take classes on how to not crumple at the sheer sight of them.

“Okay,” he blew out finally. “But you have to let me pay somehow!”

Michael smiled happily. “We’ll see,” he murmured, turning around and striding to his car.

“Hey, your coat!” Dean called after him, taking it off.

“Keep it,” Michael called back over the roof of his car, grinning as he slipped into the sleek machine.

He pulled out of the driveway while Dean watched, the coat hanging limply from his hand.

* * *

The next morning, while Dean was cleaning up, his phone rang. He picked up the phone and scowled at the unknown number. “Hello?”

“Hello, Dean! It’s Michael!”

Dean stifled the urge to hang up the phone. “Ah, Michael.” He paused. “What can I do for you today, and how did you get this number?”

Michael chuckled. “Crowley gave it to me with some… persuasion.”

 _Meaning large cash amount._ Dean sighed. “Of course he did.”

“I actually called to see if you were available Monday?” When Dean didn’t respond, he added, “Uh, to see the doctor I recommended?”

Dean closed his eyes, thankful that Michael couldn’t see him. “Yeah, about that… I’m really not comfort—“

“Please, Dean.” The slight pleading in Michael’s voice surprised Dean and he swallowed his words awkwardly. “I really want to do this for you. It’s not just taking you out or something. If there’s something wrong, I want to help you fix it.”

And it was something Dean would actually like fixed. He really couldn’t apply for jobs if he stank to high heaven, and using suppressants and scent blockers like he’s _been_ doing was going to get expensive.

Huffing out another breath, he replied, “Look, I’m not really comfortable with that… but if you tell me where to go, I’ll see the doctor myself.”

Dean was fairly sure Michael was pouting on the other end before breathing out, “Okay fine. Get a pen.”

* * *

 

The doctor’s office was in Kansas City, about an hour’s drive by I-70. The traffic wasn’t too bad until he closed in on the city limits, and then Dean was white-knuckling and swearing up a storm as people blithely cut him off without signaling or slowed suddenly. This was why he hated taking his Baby into the big cities. Assholes.

The doctor’s office was in a gleaming building that seemed to be more glass than anything else. The lobby was bustling with people in suits, the copper tones and warm colors of the interior supposed to be professional, yet rich and warming. It just made Dean feel severely underdressed and he nearly turned around and left. As it was, the parking garage was expensive and he hoped the doctor’s office would validate and get him off the $20 charge.

He found the doctor’s name on the building directory before stepping into the packed elevator headed up. He ignored the gasps and stares as his scent hit the stuffy elevator air, and wasn’t surprised when most of the people jumped out at the next floor, a few of them gagging. Since he was coming to get diagnosed, he hadn’t worn as much scent blocker as usual. He stunk, but at least it wasn’t _as_ bad as it could have been. He got off at the ninth floor, shoving past a woman with her head tucked into her sweater neck and eyes glued to her phone, and a bicycle messenger who was chewing his gum too loudly and covering his nose with a sweaty-gloved hand.

The name on the plaque next to the door gleamed professionally, proclaiming “Anna Milton M.D. & Balthazar Hickey M.D.” and underneath it read “Internal Medicine.”

Sighing, he walked in and eyed the interior. Fancy. Very fancy. It looked more like the lounge to Purgatory than a doctor's waiting room. Deep rich maroon couches decorated the waiting area around what looked like a fancy rug. The walls were wallpapered in ivory with a slightly darker shade striping it in 3D. There was an old painting of mostly [naked women](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/cb/b2/6e/cbb26e9b0f15d2cb7ab8c55d0c7a014e.jpg) in a circle around a goat-legged dude and [one of another goat-legged](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/e/ea/Nicolas_Poussin_-_The_Nurture_of_Bacchus_-_WGA18285.jpg) guy, a napping naked chick, and a bunch of kids in it. There weren't any health brochures or anything remotely medical. If he didn't know better, he'd have said he had walked into a stock broker's office or something.

Unable to help himself, he squinted uneasily at the painting, thinking it really was a bit…much…for a doctor’s office, when a pleasant voice asked, “Can I help you?”

Dean turned to look, and the receptionist was peering at him from around his huge Mac desktop monitor at the over-sized desk, his blue eyes questioning.

“Uh, yeah… I’m here to see…” He shifted his hand into his pocket, keeping his distance, and pulled out a note. “Doctor Hickey?”

The receptionist (the little black nameplate with gold lettering on his desk said ‘Inias Chapel’) nodded and asked, “Your name?”

“Dean Winchester.”

Inias tapped at the keyboard and squinted at the monitor, nodding. “Yes… you’ve been referred by… Michael Novak..?”

Inias turned to stare at him a moment, eyes assessing, and Dean felt his nerves rev up at the objectifying look that swept up and down his body. He glared at the man until the receptionist blinked and colored faintly, clearing his throat uncomfortably. “Yes, well, please fill out these forms and someone will see you momentarily.”

Dean stalked over to the desk, just inside scenting range, and ignored the flicker of disgust on Inias’s face as Dean took the clipboard with what looked like ten pages of questions with a stifled groan and took a seat far from the desk. He flipped through the pages and grimaced at the number of invasive questions.

Gripping his blue Bic pen like a lifeline, he jumped in. “Dean Winchester,” he scribbled and then ticked off, “Sex: male. Designation: Omega-2.” Huffing a sigh, he muttered to himself, “Just one billion more questions to go…”

* * *

The doctor’s examination room was not as chilly as most Dean had ever found himself in. It was more… ornate…than most he’d been in, but that was mostly in how shiny and expensive the cabinets looked. There was a pristine sink, a purple vinyl rolling stool, and glass jars with supplies in them, like alcohol pads and cotton balls. The examination table was like any other he had ever seen, with the same kind of crinkling paper he had settled his ass on in dozens of other doctor’s offices in his life. It was better than a couple of places, actually, where he swore they reused the stuff instead of tearing it off.

He was trying to decide if he wanted to pull out his cheap little mp3 player to entertain himself when there was a brusque knock and a tall blond strolled into the room, his nose presumably in the paperwork Dean had filled.

The blond stopped dead, halfway to the examination table and gagged, yelping, “Dear Jesus, what is that stench?!”

Blue eyes flickered up towards the table and Dean awkwardly waved. “That’d be me.”

There was then the awkward moment when the doctor realized he recognized Dean by the widening of his eyes, and Dean realized he recognized the doctor with a groan and slapping a hand to his face.

_Fucking Michael. What the fuck, man…_

It was the blond dude who was with Michael at Heaven. _Fuck._

The guy staggered back to the shiny cabinets and scrabbled into the bottom to pull out a can that he sprayed all over the room. Dean choked on the aerosol, even if he couldn’t smell it. He figured it was scent-neutralizer though, something the doctor confirmed when he waved away the last of the vapor hanging in the air and said, “Okay, well now, _Rocky_! What can we do for you?”

Dean ignored the salacious wink the doctor managed to add to his alias and replied, “Well, as you can smell, I seem to be suffering from…” Dean paused, feeling bitter about it. “Rejection,” he grumbled.

Two blond eyebrows jumped up towards the doctor’s hairline. “Really? You think it’s rejection? That’s a one in a million diagnosis!” Balthazar hummed and scribbled something on his clipboard, looking up to peer at Dean very seriously when he was done. “Now, tell me all…”

To be certain, the switch from sleazy blond douche to a professional demeanor was rather unsettling, and Dean did a double-take at the intense interest Balthazar was suddenly showing. Dean relayed very reluctantly everything that had led to his smelling problem (avoiding all names and locations), including his dead sniffer, and Balthazar hummed and nodded as he scribbled. When he had lamely finished with Michael insisting he come to the office, the doctor chuckled and grinned.

“Indeed so here we are.” The blond tucked his clipboard under his arm and pulled out a tablet out from one of his pockets, tapping in a few things and humming with interest as he did. It was annoying, because Dean couldn’t see what he was typing in. But the doctor nodded and put the tablet away to scribble a bit more on the clipboard.

“Okay, so we are indeed dealing with a case of rejection.” Ice blue eyes crinkled at the edges as he added, “Although I’ve been a doctor for years and years now, yours is the first case I’ve ever encountered in my life.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Not like I wanted this.”

“Never said you did.” The man hummed and stared at Dean until Dean shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. “But there _might_ be a way to at least ease your symptoms until your Omega can get over it.”

He strolled over to the cabinets and unlocked a smaller one with another cabinet lockbox inside, pulling out a small white bottle and tossing it to Dean. Dean caught it with one hand and frowned.

“What is this?” Dean stared at the label, but the name of the drug was like a bunch of weird consonants with a slew of ‘Is’ thrown in and a couple of ‘Ys.’ There was no way he was going to be able to pronounce it.

Balthazar scratched down some notes, intently focused on whatever he was writing. “Well, the technical name doesn’t matter because you’ll know the street name: ‘Thrall.’”

“Thrall? Are you serious?”

The doctor grinned and took a seat on the purple vinyl rolling stool, gliding closer to Dean. “Thrall is used to soothe omegas in distress, especially those from abusive relationships or with anxiety disorders.” He shrugged. “I’m not 100% sure this will heal up your Omega, but Thrall tricks it into thinking you’re with your alpha and safe.”

Dean frowned heavily. “I don’t think I like the sound of that.”

“It’s that or you wait to recover on your own.” Balthazar pulled the tablet from his lab coat pocket again and flicked at it a moment, nodding. “Yes, it says that the last documented case of rejection lasted six months before the symptoms let up.”

He met Dean’s gaze and asked, “Did you want to try the Thrall, or do you want to go au naturel? Either way, it’s a fascinating case to me.” He flicked the tablet again. “I mean, last _documented_ case was…” He whistled in awe. “Wow… 1937.”  The doctor made a humming noise and added, “Well, it seems most omegas just kill themselves than deal with the social stigma.”

Dean snapped, “I’m not going to kill myself.”

The doctor patted Dean’s knee comfortingly and ruined the effect by scrunching his nose as he scooted back a bit. “That’s good. Like I said, let’s give the Thrall a chance and I’ll see you in two weeks. Just take it twice a day for the first week and then once a day after that. There’s even a chance your sense of smell will return. We just need to see.”

Sighing, Dean nodded and eyed the bottle.

Balthazar stood and grabbed the scent-neutralizing aerosol again, spraying it in Dean’s direction. With his nose covered, he added, “Also, it might benefit you to find an alpha to hang out with, get some of their pheromones into your system. See if that helps level you out a bit faster.”

At that Dean growled and glared at the man. “I don’t ‘hang out’ with alphas.”

Shrugging, the doctor said, “That’s not my problem, sweet cheeks. It’s a suggestion for you to take or leave.” He grinned and waved lightly. “I’ll see you in two weeks, Dean.”

Groaning, Dean muttered, “Why is this my life?”

* * *

The first dose of Thrall knocked him out like solid punch to the jaw.

One moment he was upright and the next he was waking up half-sprawled across his bed, his legs awkwardly hanging off the edge and a pool of drool wetting the sheets.

Sam had gotten up and gone off to school already, as Dean had slept a solid 12 hours. Groggy and unhappy, he dragged his smelly ass into the shower to coat himself in scent blockers, managed to eat something, and crawled back into bed.

Not a happy beginning, he thought as he fought to keep his eyes open after taking his morning dose. He had hoped it was a one-time thing, passing out like that.

But resistance was futile. He knocked out like a bad prizefighter with a glass jaw.

He passed out hard and slept all day, managing somehow to crawl out of bed to go fetch Sam. He didn’t mind letting Sam go solo in the mornings. Mornings weren’t so bad for Sam because lots of parents walked their kids to school, but in the afternoon, a lot of kids went to programs, and Dean felt less secure about Sam walking home. After all, Sam was a cute kid, kinda scrawny, and looked like an easy target. Who wouldn’t want that adorable dork?

He managed to get to the school, yawning the whole way, so it wasn’t surprising that, as they walked home, Sam looked concerned the whole time and Dean waved him off. He somehow managed to make Sam dinner and take his third dose. He again passed out like someone had hit the lights.

 When he woke up the next morning, he found he had received a phone call from Michael, which he ignored, and that he had slept another 12 hours. He crawled out of bed and, finding Sam sleepily eating cereal at the table, he asked, “Do I still stink?”

Sam blinked and sniffed, his nose curling as he blurted, “Bad.”

“As bad as before?”

Sam shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe not as bad.”

Dean rolled his eyes at his unhelpful baby brother and took his morning dose. He crawled back into bed reluctantly. This time he slept for a shorter time, and even managed to get out of bed, wash up, and take care of some of his trailer park chores for the day.

In the afternoon, he fetched Sam and they walked home with Sam cheerfully telling Dean about his day. He was entirely too excited about his science project in Dean’s opinion. But it didn’t matter anyway.

It was hard to concentrate on what Sam said.

New side-effects had kicked in and Dean felt like he was disconnected from his brain by a foggy sensation. Things felt distant, like he couldn’t quite touch his emotions and thoughts. On one hand, it was disconcerting. On the other, it was numbing. He didn’t quite feel himself but in this case, maybe that was a good thing?

When they got home, Dean shook his head like a dog, trying to clear the muffled feeling, as he made dinner for the night. The stir fry was okay, considering he couldn’t smell it, but Sam seemed happy with it, so he deemed it a success.

He took his pill for the night and, as usual, passed out hard and fast.

By the end of his week of taking his pills twice a day, he was tired of being tired and foggy. The cottony feeling in his head never went away and he felt like he was staring at life passing him by without it touching him. Like his soul was loose in his body and it was just rattling around in there, like a nut rolling in a tin can.

He went through his day by rote, ignoring the concerned looks Sam threw him. It was fine. He was fine. He felt fine. Better than he had in a while. It was nice, even, to feel things remotely instead of the pain of abandonment that had once flared through his skin when he had so much as thought of Cas.

 _Not ‘Cas.’ Deacon Castiel_.

It didn’t matter, anyway. Sam reported that ~~Cas~~ _Deacon_ Castiel hadn’t been at the church for the last few weeks.

Dean had made him run away. Far, far away.

Well, at least he couldn’t smell himself or the pity that was probably shot his way. Screw it. Numb was the way to go.

Michael had called a few times, and Dean had spoken to him monosyllabically, spitting out responses to get the man to leave him alone, but just enough that the Alpha didn’t think about dropping by unannounced again. And Michael did leave him alone, since he knew Dean didn’t feel good, which seemed like a miracle.

Then, one afternoon when Michael called to check in, mostly because he was doing business in Kansas City, Dean stopped himself from being curt and turning off his phone. He paused and recalled that the doctor had recommended spending time with an alpha if he wanted to hurry along his progress. And according to Sam, it was coming along, but more slowly than Dean liked. And, heck, Michael was an Alpha. Hell, Michael was practically begging to spend time with him.

Why not?

Which is why for week two of his medication, Dean started seeing Michael. He refused to call them “dates.” He just did. But the distant feeling in his head had lessened a bit, and he realized that, yeah, Michael was okay in small doses. A bit of an ass, but he was, after all, a second-level Alpha and, according to him, a soon-to-be pack leader.

Not that Dean cared about packs and all that, but Michael was _also_ willing to pay for everything, and Dean was broke as a joke with no money coming in. So, why not? Kill two birds with one stone.

They kept the so-called “not dates” to short trips, but Michael was really trying his best to woo Dean. Dean had to admit that. It also helped that the salty scent of sea water and bamboo wasn’t clogging up his nose and telling his brain _wrong alpha!_

Michael took Dean to a shooting range where Dean impressed the Alpha—and the instructor Michael had brought to teach Dean how to handle a gun—by out shooting him and the bemused instructor. He was nearly offered a job to teach self-defense to other omegas before Michael basically carried him off.

They went to a few of the more famous diners in the area and Michael even lowered himself to watch a hot dog eating contest Dean had wanted to see. To Dean’s amusement, he allowed Dean to force a neon yellow t-shirt on him that said, “I Was WOW’D At The GutBuster Hot Dog Eating Contest!” on the back and with a giant smiling hot dog on the front. Michael even wore it long enough for a selfie with Dean. The picture ended up Michael’s background picture on his cell phone.

Dean fit in his doctor’s appointment when Michael had to go back to St. Louis for some meetings for a couple of days, which was amazing because he was a big boss, but he had been taking a lot of time to come have... _not_ -dates with Dean. It made Dean feel a bit guilty, but he didn't know if Michael had the time to do it. Michael rarely actually spoke about business, possibly thinking Dean wouldn't get it or that he'd get bored. Either way, the doctor's appointment went better than expected, with Balthazar telling him he could take the Thrall at night, as long as he kept hanging out with an Alpha (said with a sly grin), and that his scent was improving a great deal. It wasn’t an ideal solution, but it was working.

“The best thing, really, would be for you to just get your mate to accept you,” Balthazar sighed as he furiously scribbled onto the clipboard. “But I suppose it’s not an option.”

“I don’t even know where he is,” Dean bit out, bitter and unwilling to even think about it.

That caused Balthazar to raise an eyebrow at him and stop scribbling. “Well then,” he said soothingly, “You’re taking the right steps to cure yourself. Just keep it up. You’ll be right as rain in no time.”

Dean hoped he was right.

The following Friday, Michael flew in to see him and took him on another not-date that Dean would not have expected from the pompous Alpha: pizza and Laser Tag.

The game of Laser Tag had somehow ended up very competitive, to the point Michael had ended up annoyed for the rest of the night because Dean’s team had won: he had joined a group of rowdy 12-year olds who had needed one more player, versus a gaggle of 15-year olds and Michael. Michael had learned the hard way that 12-year olds are _very_ small targets without much scent to give them away.

Dean had learned that Michael knew how to smile without looking like he was being an ass about it when the kids had cheered and laughed at the losing team before hurrying off for ice cream. It had been enlightening to see Michael interact with kids.

If anything was a downer to his so-called outings (Dean still refused to call them dates), it would be _her._

Whenever Michael took Dean to something “low brow,” he also fit in an event that wasn’t so low brow.

The first time Dean met _her_ was at the Sunday pro football game. Michael took Dean to a Kansas City Chiefs’ game where Dean got to experience a VIP box and eat all the hamburgers he could handle.

The VIP box was pure awesome, although he missed mingling with the crowds: there was an energy to being in a huge bunch of people all cheering for the same team. And it wasn’t as if there wasn’t a small crowd of people in the box: even though it was private, it was owned by the corporation, so there were other employees in the box as well. Michael was forced to do his meet and greet with them, while Dean slipped away to watch the game.

He was busy rooting for the Chiefs, who had managed a turnover, when he felt a slight tap on his shoulder.

Startled, he turned to look. A beautiful woman was staring at him with a slight frown between her light green eyes, her manicured hand on her hip as she looked him over. Her butterscotch-colored hair was piled fashionably on top of her head, and her makeup was perfect, down to the cappuccino-colored nail polish that matched the deeper tones of her tweed trousers and the rich smoky-quartz brown blouse with no sleeves and high-necked billowing silk bow around her throat.

“Well, you aren’t _bad_ looking, but I don’t see what the big deal is,” she muttered, her British accent making it sound even bitchier. She batted her long lashes at Dean, and stated more than asked, “So you’re here with Michael?”

Dean stared back, feeling underdressed despite the dress shirt and pants he was wearing at Michael’s request. “I am,” he said, raising an eyebrow, “and you are?”

She quirked a smile and presented her hand like she expected the back to be kissed. “Bela. Bela Talbot.” She raised her chin and jerked it a tiny bit towards the group talking at the couches. “You may know my half-sister, Naomi? She works with Michael.”

Dean shook her fingers awkwardly, ignoring her princess expectations, and looked over at the group where a familiar woman in a familiar gray pantsuit stood near Michael, smiling thinly.

“Oh, her.” He remembered the cold fish. “Yeah, she hangs out with Michael, I guess?”

Bela glared and hissed, “That’s _Mr. Novak_ to you, omega trash!”

Dean speared her a look and snorted. “What’s it to you, sunshine?”

Bela’s eyes glimmered omega gold for a moment and she haughtily said, “He will be _my_ mate someday, and I will not have him spoken of like that.”

Dean smirked and leaned back a bit to stare at her. He couldn’t smell her, but her eyes gave away that she was an omega. Her feistiness also made him suspect she was at least a second-level Omega. A very rich one at that. But from the tip of her fancy shoes to the top of her fluffy coiffed head, she was obviously a demented bitch. Michael, after all, had never mentioned her and barely spared her a moment when they walked in.

He was about to open his mouth and show her how omega trash could swear like the gutter when Michael walked over, concern on his face. At least, Dean assumed it was concern. He couldn’t smell a thing and it was frustrating as hell in situations like this.

“Dean, you’re missing the game,” Michael murmured, eyeing Bela like she was the problem.

Bela hitched on a sweet smile and oozed, “Hi Michael. Long time no see.”

Michael blinked at her, like he wasn’t sure who she was, and then snapped his fingers. “AH! Naomi’s kid sister! I remember! The one from London!” He smiled politely and took her hand, shaking it quickly and nodding. “Right, I remember. Well, if you excuse us, we can’t let these tickets go to waste, can we? Dean, come on!”

Resisting the urge to stick out his tongue at her (or flip her the bird), he grinned smugly in her direction while Michael wound a hand around his waist to lead him away. He felt almost vindicated by the burn of pure hatred in her eyes, even as he suppressed his desire to move out of Michael’s arms. They had been not-dating for two weeks, but that didn’t mean he was comfortable with Michael’s possessive shows of affection.

Dean avoided Bela for the rest of the evening, and declined to go to the after party, since he had to go home to Sam. Michael reluctantly agreed to send him home, but he stayed behind.

Dean took a taxi home and totally didn’t mind. He ended up watching _Dark Knight Returns_ with Sam and getting into a popcorn fight that took forever to clean up.

It was the weekend before Christmas when Michael showed up and decided to take them to a pricey steakhouse. There weren’t a lot of stuffed animal heads or saddles and horseshoes on the walls like Dean had seen in some places. There were no rough wood decorations or peanut shells all over the floors. It was all fancy chandeliers and gold-leaf walls. The round tables actually had cloth tablecloths, the menu was merely one page, all of it à la carte (which he discovered meant he had to order everything separately, meat, sides, and all).

The steaks were all “aged” beef, prepared to perfection by a master chef. Dean just let Michael order everything since he was going to regardless, and he really couldn’t go wrong with steak. Dean did hold on to the menu in order to eye their dessert offerings (they were in friggin’ French, for fuck’s sake), and as he tried to figure out if the one that said _tarte aux pommes_ was as close to pie as he was gonna get, Michael cleared his throat to get Dean’s attention.

“Dean, I have been enjoying your company the last few weeks, and, um, I was wondering if you would accompany me to my company Christmas party on the 23rd?”

Startled but trying not to show it, Dean paused in his perusal of the menu (and in trying to think back to his one month of French like two years ago… he vaguely remembered something about _pomme_ being a potato...and something about  _voulez-vous coucher avec moi_ , but he was pretty sure that was a song…) and murmured, “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

He smiled softly at the frown on Michael’s face and stood up. “Oh and if you don’t mind, could you order me whatever’s the closest to pie? I think it’s that tarte thing…” He winked and swanned off to the toilet, leaving Michael frowning at the menu.

Sighing, he walked the small path and tried to keep himself from showing he was nervous. These not-dates were getting more and more serious. He really didn’t want to indulge Michael more than he had.

The omega restroom was cleaner than most he had seen in his life. There was no graffiti and there was actually toilet paper in the stalls. He used the urinal and turned to wash his hands, looking at himself in the mirror with unease. The long-sleeved dark green shirt and the jewel-colored green sweater vest made his eyes brighter and the gold in them more evident. Omega clothes were almost always in jewel-tones and meant to accentuate the omega’s best features. At least Michael hadn’t forced him into more androgynous wear, because Dean felt distinctly male even if he was an Omega.

Dean swiped his face with a damp hand, relishing the slight cooling effect, and blew out another irritated sigh. He knew from Sam’s sniff tests that his scent had improved a lot, whether it was from the Thrall working or from hanging out with Michael. He had no idea, though, how much longer he could put up with Michael’s possessive grabbiness. He had allowed the Alpha to kiss him a couple of times, but mostly goodbye after a fun evening. Although it was evident Michael wanted to push for more, Dean was not a typical omega. Michael had earned a black eye the one time he had tried to insist.

It had taken a week and a half of begging for Dean to even speak to him again. That and a promise to go to the hot dog eating contest.

It was as Dean stood and tried to figure out the best way to get out of the Christmas invitation, the door opened and someone walked in. Dean didn’t look up, caught up in his thoughts, when someone poked him in the shoulder. He turned to look and see what they wanted, when a hand flashed out and slapped him hard.

“What the actual fuck?!?” He sputtered, squinting at the fucker who had essentially sucker punched him. It was the bitch from the football stadium. Rubbing his cheek, he grumbled, “Oh it’s you again. What the hell, lady?”

Frowning deeply, the woman sharply said in her clipped British accent, “I warned you to stay away from him! He’s _mine_.”

Dean smirked at her and stood straight so he towered over the smaller Omega. “Look, lady, I don’t know what your problem is, but Mikey is asking _me_ out. _Not_ you.” He wiggled his index finger at her face and added, “So whatever messed up dreams you got in that head of yours, can it. He’s picked me. Live with it.”

Her face paled with every word and she glared at him with every bit of force in her now-glowing omega-gold eyes. “You’ll regret this. If you do not walk out of this restaurant and walk away from him, I’ll make you pay in ways that you can’t imagine.”

Dean tipped her chin up with a finger and winked at her. “Well, I can imagine a lot, so do your worst.”

As he stepped past her, she growled, “You’ll regret this Dean Winchester! Mark my words!”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled, “Tell it to the mirror, Evil Queen. You’re the fairest in the land. Blah blah blah.”

When he got back to the table, their food had arrived and with a pleased hum, he sat down to his New York strip.

Michael was quietly eating his own steak and Dean paused in his devouring to cough and say, “Um, if that invite to the Christmas party is still open, I’ll go… although you know I won’t fit in.”

Michael looked up at Dean, surprise evident, and a genuine smile lit his handsome face as he responded, “I don’t care if you don’t fit in! I just want you with me.”

Dean tried to keep his expression blank as Michael backhandedly complimented him (as usual) and nodded. “Fine. Just… tell me what to wear and what we’re doing, and I’ll make do.”

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The word IMPALA translates on a phone to "467252." Just... FYI.
> 
> True story: I had a science teacher named "Mr. Hickey." 
> 
> For those who don't know, "pomme" means "apple." Dean is thinking of "pomme de terre" which is a "potato."
> 
> If you see any mistakes, give me a holler. I'll fix it!! Thanks!
> 
> PS: I'm nervous about posting this... which is one reason it's late. Ha ha...


	9. Why am I so emotional?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean figures out what happens when you bite off more than you can chew of something you hate the taste of _anyway_. (Silly rabbit... trix are for kids... )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short. Annoying. Filler. Chapter.
> 
> Don't shoot me, please.
> 
> This stems from Dean hating Michael and then BAM! Showing up with him?? Like WTH, right? So, this is why. Next chapter is half done because I am ditching my Grad work to FAN FIC!! HA!!! *sigh*
> 
> All of you who encouraged me, THANK YOU SO MUCH! I means a lot to me. It really does. I had a shitty month, what with... things... happening. And me being in the middle of some... uncomfortable things in the fandom. So... again, thank you.
> 
> A/N 1: Recall that Slick is literally slick that is used to smoke in hookah pipes to relax alphas.
> 
> A/N 2: Orchid comes from “orkhis” (Greek) and means “testicle.” Who knew?
> 
> A/N 3: The hotel is completely fake as I didn’t stay long enough in St. Louis to check out downtown. I did, however, have a ghost experience at the motel I stayed at, so that was nice. Not.
> 
> If I said something... off... or offensive, please tell me. I've been staring at Japanese books for like months so my brain may not be at full speed.
> 
> I'm serious. If it's a serious concern or if it's like constructive criticism, I'm not going to cuss you out or deny it. Seriously.
> 
> Muchos garcias to [Shipperslist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShippersList/pseuds/ShippersList) for being my saving beta! And to [StKirsch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stkirsch/pseuds/Stkirsch) for alphaing! <3 U BOTH!!
> 
> Title still from Sam Smith's "[Stay with Me](https://youtu.be/pB-5XG-DbAA)."
> 
> Oh and happy turkey day. Because I try to be thankful daily, and the only thing I celebrate is I don't have to make the turkey for once. That's it. Have a good day off!

The week of the Christmas party, while cleaning up dinner, Dean ‘fessed up to Sam. “I’m thinking that you’ve guessed by now that I’m _kinda_ seeing someone.”

Blinking, Sam looked up from his laptop. “Is it Cas?”

“NO! It’s not Cas!” Dean snapped, throwing the dishtowel he was drying their dishes from dinner with on the counter and turning to face Sam. “For fuck’s sake, he’s like a priest-in-training! What even gave you that idea?!”

Round eyed, Sam shrugged and made a noise that sounded like “idunno.”

Dean frowned harder. “No, _where the fuck did you get that idea from?_ ”

“maybe cuz you were kissing him?”

“What? Stop mumbling, for fuck’s sake!”

“MAYBE CUZ YOU WERE KISSING HIM!” Sam shouted, red faced.

Dean’s mouth snapped shut. He had tried to forget that had happened to the point he had forgotten there had been witnesses. Witnesses, he mused, staring at his defiant little shit of a brother with his raised chin and trembling bottom lip, he might have to dispose of.

“Forget you saw that,” Dean growled, turning to viciously tackle the macaroni pan with a mangled plastic-mesh scouring pad. “That was nothing.”

“didn’t seem like nothing,” Sam muttered under his breath.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Sammy!” Dean shouted, hands full of suds and staring up at the trailer ceiling with frustrated exhaustion. “He’s been back since the middle of November and I haven’t seen him. He stays as far away from me as he freakin’ can! Which part of that doesn’t scream that he doesn’t want me?”

Sam belligerently shrugged and glared at his laptop. “I think he just doesn’t know how to like you,” the precocious 13-year old grumbled.

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose with a damp, sudsy hand and swiped it over his mouth. Agitated, his lips rolled in tautly and then he released a huff of annoyance. “Well, whatever. That’s not who I’m kinda seeing.”

“So, who’s the mystery guy?” Sam asked, taking a sip of his orange juice.

“His name is Michael,” Dean said mildly, scraping at the stuck on pasta and cheese. “He wants me to go to a Christmas party with him.”

“So?”

Dean huffed out another sigh and just blurted, “It’s overnight. You’ll have to stay with Missouri or something. I’ll be back the next day.”

Sam shrugged. “Okay. If you think he’s safe, I’ll believe you.” He paused and eyed Dean. “Unless… you don’t want me to think he’s safe...?”

Shaking his head while rinsing off the pan and attacking it with the drying cloth, Dean said, “Nah. It’s on the 23rd in St. Louis, so I’ll be gone just for the night.” He turned and winked at his little brother. “I want to find you a nice gift while I’m there, so I don’t want to miss Christmas.”

Sam smiled softly. “Dean, I don’t care about gifts. I mean, if this will make you happy, you should do it. Don’t worry about me.”

Dean threw the damp dish drying towel at Sam’s head, leaping on him to mess up the mop of brown hair while Sam howled at the icky towel. “Don’t you try and act all grown up with me! Pretending you’re better than a surprise gift and shit! You’re _always_ going to be just plain old Sammy!”

Laughing, Dean let his little brother tackle him away from the table and they rolled around on the floor until Sam was pinned and they were both laughing hard.

Dean rubbed Sam’s head one more time (he tried to dodge but to no avail), tangling the scruffy head of hair, and got off of him, stretching out a hand to help his little brother up. “But seriously, Sam, are you okay with that?”

Sam grunted as he managed to get his giraffe legs under him, patted at his hair to get it settled, and nodded. “Of course, Dean. I’m thirteen, not seven,” he said with disgust.

“Fine, I’ll talk to Missouri. Like I said, it should only be overnight.”

Shrugging as he slid back into his seat, Sam replied, “Yeah. Fine. You should just have some fun. I think I can handle one night. Just bring me back a souvenir.” He grinned. “Something nice!”

Dean snorted. “I’ll bring you back a square of toilet paper from the hotel bathroom, bitch.”

“You are such a _jerk_!”

* * *

St. Louis was pretty boring.

It wasn’t the biggest city Dean had been in, but being forced to go to an office Christmas party was definitely not his idea of a good time. At least he didn’t have to pay for anything, and, although he had been a prostitute (not that Michael treated him as such), Michael wasn’t forcing him to sleep in the same room.

Perhaps there were good points to Michael?

Maybe.

Dean had snorted. _Probably not._

Michael had picked him up from the airport in a shiny new Series 750i BMW sedan—all red leather seats and electronic _everything_ —and zipped through the city in a dangerous manner that made Dean nervous since he wasn’t in the driver’s seat. The traffic in St. Louis was worse than in Kansas City, and Dean wasn’t sure how Michael was buzzing through the traffic in some places like an angry—and damned expensive—hornet.

And then there was the problem with what Dean expected and what he got. He had expected a hotel away from Michael, maybe sharing two rooms if it came to that.

But no. Michael had insisted they stay at his apartment.

It was in downtown St. Louis with a balcony that overlooked the Arch and the river. The view was gorgeous, as Michael pointed out, and the apartment had been obviously decorated by a professional because Dean doubted that Michael had had the time or the leanings to bother choosing a miniature Zen rock garden and bamboo decorations. The room given to Dean was lavish as the rest of the apartment.

When Michael had explained over the phone that the penthouse was big enough to house four or five guests, Dean had relaxed some. He had relaxed a little more when they had arrived and Michael had showed him to his room and it was far from the master suite.

With the space between them, Dean wasn’t sure what Michael was expecting from him, but whatever. It didn’t seem like he was interested in sex, and it wasn’t like Dean hadn’t had sex with someone he didn’t care for before.

He just hadn’t done it, really, since… well… since ~~Cas~~ Deacon Castiel had ki—

Dean wasn’t going to think about it.

The thought of sex was actually rendering him nauseous, which was a problem for a guy like Dean. He figured it was more _mates_ crap and ignored it too. Considering Michael’s behavior, he wasn’t very nervous about sharing digs with Michael, and that’s all that mattered.

His discomfort flared when he came out of the room after cleaning himself up and putting on clean clothes, looking to see about dinner. He was starving and plane rides were _not_ his thing, even if the private jet to St. Louis came with top-notch scotch.

On the leather couch of the living room, he found Michael loading up a very pricey-looking hookah with what looked like Slick.

Now, although Dean was aware that alphas adored Slick, he had never seen someone have a set up at their home. Not that he often went to anyone’s home, especially rich dudes, but watching Michael nearly shake as he put away the container of Slick to take a hit did make him vaguely uneasy.

“Are…are we going to dinner?” Dean asked softly, nervously, as the Alpha blew rings of smoke.

Michael sat up a bit and rubbed a hand over his face before taking another hit. “In about twenty minutes, my assistant will be here to help you prepare for the party.” Waving the mouth piece, he added, “If I thought this would do something for you, I’d offer you a hit. She’s very effective but just a bit… overwhelming.”

Dean eyed the hookah and sighed.

One more thing to add to Michael’s personality: addiction.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, after Dean had messaged Sam the stunning photos from the penthouse’s view of the Arch, he had finally just helped himself to a sandwich. He was standing in front of the open door getting some more orange juice from the fridge, when the front door burst open with someone speaking nearly too quickly to be human and with way too much enthusiasm.

“Oh my god, yes! That’s a perfect idea, Sven! Why don’t you get that set up and I’ll start with the omega in the bedroom?”

There was a low grunt of agreement and a short blonde woman in khakis and a baby-blue argyle sweater walked into the kitchen and paused, staring at Dean boldly.

“Well, you’re not what I pictured.” She hummed, her eyes narrowed as she held out her hand. “I’m Becky Rosen; just call me Becky! I’m Mr. Novak’s assistant and I’m here to brief and prep you for this evening.”

Dean frowned but shook the woman’s hand. “I’m sorry… _brief and prep_?”

Becky smiled thinly and nodded. “Oh yes! As Mr. Novak’s date, you’ll be expected to know at least the most _basic_ of etiquette for the evening. I’m… _sure,_ ” she paused to wave vaguely in Dean’s direction, “you know at least _basic_ alpha-omega etiquette?”

Staring back at her, Dean took an impolitely big gulp of orange juice and even let some dribble out the corner of his mouth to be hateful.

“High-flyin’ lycan etiquette ain’t exactly taught in public school,” he grinned, deliberately using his tongue to swipe like a two-year old around his mouth, followed by a rough rubbing with his Henley’s sleeve. “And I flunked out of charm school, sorry.”

She primly faked a chuckle and backed up, looking out into the hallway. “Alexandra, Peter, get the omega trimmed and showered. Sven, I know Mr. Novak is smoking, so it might take a bit to get him onto the massage table, but _please_ detoxify him and try to get that out of his system!”

A tall, dark-skinned woman with striking golden eyes and a small man with ice-blue eyes and way too much blond hair stepped into the kitchen, both dressed impeccably in black beautician outfits that tied at their waists.

“Sir, we would like to prepare you, so if you would mind coming with us…?”

The woman had a warm voice even if her eyes were cold, as if she were not going to take “no” for an answer. Dean couldn’t smell her, but she looked like an alpha.

The man smiled blandly, even as Dean eyed the dude’s hair. It looked like Thor’s hair from the first movie, partially pulled back. Dean wondered if it was supposed to be sexy, but with the guy’s small frame, it looked a bit feminine. Dean would’ve guessed omega, but the easy way he walked and talked with the woman made him think the guy was probably just an average beta.

Sighing, Dean allowed them to drag him along to the guest room.

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

It was nearly 7PM by the time they were done with him to their satisfaction.

Dean was not satisfied; Dean was pissed.

He had endured a haircut, a facial, a shave, an all-over body exfoliation, a shower (he managed that on his own, thank-you- _very_ -much) with girly-pink and baby-blue gels, a manipedi, and, the final humiliation, makeup, all while the two beauticians recited the basics of alpha-omega etiquette.

Sure, the silk body powder had felt nice (crushed silk cocoons felt nicer than it sounded) and the pearl face cream had made his face feel smooth, but Dean Winchester was _male_ as any alpha or beta, damn it! He rarely wore omega makeup and never used specially-made omega goods for the “sweet-smelling omega.” He didn’t _want_ to enhance his natural scent, and he didn’t _want_ to appeal to “alphas everywhere.”

So the fact they (the odd-couple beauticians) had plastered foundation on thick enough to cover his freckles and forced him to wear gray eyeliner and a bit of mascara was enough to have him in a simmering rage.

“I’m not a runway model,” he griped, wiggling to get free of the woman’s hands holding him down with alpha strength and away from the eyeliner pencil. “Get off me!”

“Sir, this is the last bit! Look, look!” The blond with too much hair pulled a lip balm from his pocket with a flourish. “No lipstick or anything. Just lip balm!”

Dean glared at the woman, who glared back, and pointedly motioned at his trapped hands. She snarled a tad, but released him. He took the balm with a scowl. The yellow tube said strawberry-flavored lip balm. It had a _pink_ top. He clutched it into his fist and muttered, “Whatever. Can I get out of this chair now?”

The woman sighed heavily and soothingly said, “Look, you just need to suffer through this tonight. You represent more than your uncouth self. You are representing Mr. Novak’s position in the company!”

_And this bullshit **right here** is what I was trying to avoid. _

Dean seethed in his pretty [La Perla](http://www.laperla.com/us/uscfilpd0019355-nr0002.html) “Omega Boy: Orchid” line panties, the lace panel on his butt making him feel more naked than if he were going commando. And since Dean was packing more than the average Omega male in every way, the opaque front of the low-rise briefs barely covered his dick.

It felt like the giant rosette on his ass was marking his hole like a bullseye: insert raging Alpha-cock right here!

It all made him feel slimier than when he had dressed like a “school boy” in front of an alpha john, and he had considered those times low points of his career, forced to call those disgusting alphas “daddy” and “teacher.”

“So, how often _does_ he have a trophy omega on his arm?” Dean bitched as the blond dude helped him out of the fluffy bathrobe he had been wrapped in and into the suit. It _was_ a nice suit, with a gun metal silver jacket that had black satin lapels, the faintly metallic shirt with the black satin tie, the black vest with silver embroidered puffs of wind and snowflakes, and black suit pants and shoes. It was just barely on this side of masculine; the jewel-colors he was expected to wear being replaced by the glossy silver sheen. Perhaps it didn’t matter that it wasn’t jewel colored: it was so form fitting it showed off his every nook and cranny. He was technically clothed, but still felt like he was on naked display.

It might have just been the lace rosette on his ass making him feel vulnerable, though.

The man pursed his lips and shook his head. “I wouldn’t know, sir.”

Dean pointed over at Becky, who was in the hallway fussing over Michael’s tie, while Michael rolled his eyes and tried to shoo her away.

“Would she know?” Dean asked, as Becky swatted lightly at Michael’s shooing, scolding him “for his own good” and to represent the “prestige of Celestials Inc.” in a proper manner, oh—and by the way— _sober_ manner.

Michael waited until she turned to address another couple of beauticians, these in blue outfits, and slid his hand into a drawer of a decorative hall table (chest? What were those things called?) to palm something and slip it into his suit pocket.

Dean pretended not to notice, since they had ushered him out into the same hallway and were trying to force him into a fur monstrosity: a giant gray fur coat, fluffy and soft, but…made of actual _fur_. “What is this?”

The woman stared at him flatly, waiting to hand him thin leather gloves and what looked like oversized sunglasses, and said, “Your coat.”

“I can see it’s a coat, smart ass,” he snapped, “but no one told me I was going to have to wear like a bear or something to this shindig!”

The beautician thinned her lips and sighed through her nose. “We didn’t chose it. It was chosen by Ms. Rosen. She said she didn’t want the press to catch sight of you until you were both inside.”

“Press?”

The dude handed Dean a thin wool scarf as the woman showed Dean the giant hood. “The Celestials Inc. Christmas Party is attended by many celebrities and public figures,” the blond explained, “The Novak Pack is very influential and it pays to get into their good graces.”

When the hood was pulled forward, it covered most of his face. “That is why you have been prepped like this,” the woman hissed, the tiniest tendrils of red threading her eyes. “Appreciate it. You are on the arm of the next Novak Pack Leader.”

Dean tried not to roll his eyes. Like he cared about that? He didn’t want to live the rest of his life a damned Ken doll for others to dress up.

* * *

The hotel the company was holding the party at was a large modern monstrosity that loomed over the parking lot.

In the limo, Michael had revealed he had hidden away a pocket hookah pipe and had actually winked at Dean as he took a couple of hits of Slick.

The blond beautician dude had come along with them in the limo, in case, Dean guessed, of a fashion emergency, along with the two burly bodyguards in black suits and wearing curly earpieces.

All three glared disapprovingly at Michael smoking up but, really, what could they say?

Meanwhile, Dean nestled uncomfortably into the giant fur monstrosity. The woman alpha had told him they had rented an arctic fox coat for the occasion because Becky hadn’t thought shelling out the 4-5000 dollars for a new one was worth it, not when Dean wasn’t even going to keep it. Well, not if Becky had anything to do with it, since they had already spent an ungodly amount on making Dean _barely_ presentable.

The blond dude peered out the window, squinting at the tinted glass. He scuttled across the limo, and muttered as he pulled up Dean’s hood, “That’s $4000 of fur. Don’t mess it up.”

Like Dean was going to deliberately attempt to fuck it up and waste all the poor fox lives that had gone into it. Even if it was beautiful and soft, it still felt creepily like he was wearing a corpse or twenty.

The limo soon crawled to a stop and the windows on the right-hand side immediately began to pop with flashes, bringing to harsh reality for Dean what he was walking into. Paparazzi. They _hadn’t_ been exaggerating to scare him.

The two bulky bodyguards moved forward to go out first as the door was opened, and the bright popping of lights redoubled in an instant.

Michael grimaced at Dean as he took his hand, and then plastered on a fake grin as he stepped onto the red carpet. Tugged along behind him, Dean had no choice but to move forward onto the carpet as well, grateful for the foxes that were protecting him now. The sound of shutters flicking open and close, the calls from various people as they tried to get their attention, the loud demands to know who Dean was—and for them to smile for the cameras—were overwhelming, and he was again thankful that he couldn’t smell anything.

Michael curled Dean’s gloved-hand around his elbow and walked them slowly through the surging paparazzi, the brass stanchions and red velvet ropes on each side bulging as the photographers pushed and shoved. At least Dean doubted they got a good look at him as they managed to get into the hotel lobby, where they were then ushered into the private elevator used for VIP guests.

It was a bit cramped with him, a giant bodyguard, and Michael in the moderately-sized elevator. The bodyguard looked alarmingly like the killer Alpha, the Kurgan from _Highlander_ , and Dean found himself leaning a bit closer to Michael to not feel like the bodyguard was looming over him and would at some point stab him through the belly and howl that “THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE!”

While he was mulling over his limited maneuvering options, the elevator stopped before reaching the ballrooms. To his surprise, the blond fellow got in with the bodyguard’s brusque permission. He reached out his arms and Michael removed his heavy pea coat and fancy bowler’s hat, placing his own dark gray leather gloves and light gray scarf in the crown. He then motioned for Dean to do the same, and, with some relief, Dean followed suit, removing the heavy extra layer of warmth. He already felt better without all the fancy furs on him.

The blond squinted at Dean, tsked loudly, and said, “Sir, if you please, the lip balm. It’ll complete the look.”

Suspiciously, Dean took out the balm and eyed it. It said Burt’s Bees on it, and, not surprisingly, it looked _tinted._

“Are you fuc—“ he started, ready to throw it at the guy, but Michael put a hand over his and shook his head.

“They’re just following orders,” he sighed, removing his hand. “You can’t get mad at them for that.”

“Yeah well, so were those nazi guys,” Dean muttered, ignoring the amused look Michael gave him. “Just listening to orders will get you in trouble.”

“Just put it on, Dean,” Michael said wearily, tugging at his sleeve as the elevator pinged to a stop. “We’re here. Let’s get this over with.”

“Must be nice to be all smoked up and ready to deal,” Dean grumbled as he applied the balm to his bottom lip and just rolled his lips together. He pointed at the blond dude. “That’s all you’re getting out of me!”

The guy nodded. “Yes, sir. Thank you. That was actually more than I expected.”

The reply startled Dean and he huffed out a softer, “I’m sorry, man. Just nerves, y’know? Thanks for helping me out.”

Surprised, the blond blinked and smiled slightly, nodding. “Good luck.”

Dean winked back as he moved forward to take Michael’s arm. The guy was obviously still feeling the effects of the Slick and gave Dean a slow, bawdy grin that Dean wanted to smack off his face.

They stepped into the hall like freaking royalty, what with the sudden fanfare and spotlights.

“AND NOW, OUR HOST FOR THE EVENING, MICHAEL C. NOVAK!”

Dean plastered on a smile as the band started to play, “Walking in a Winter Wonderland” and Michael walked along the new red carpet, smiling, waving like royalty, and pausing to shake hands now and again.

Which, admittedly, the Novaks were practically royalty, but Dean was certainly hoping he was no Princess Diana in this scenario. The worst part was the feeling of eyes roaming over his body, especially his neck, the not-so-subtle sniffing in his direction to see if he was—he bet—mated to Michael or at the least scent marked by him.

Actually, because he couldn’t smell anything, he didn’t even _know_ if Michael had done that. The thought irritated him, but then he realized it didn’t matter on some level.

Not if Cas didn’t want him.

Michael paused before leading them up the bandstand to the podium framed by a giant Christmas tree and some young people dressed in goofy-looking elf costumes complete with buckets full of candy canes (poor bastards). Michael waved down the applause and smiled winningly, as if he were running for office. It was creepy.

“Thank you all for coming to Celestial Inc.’s Holiday Party! I realize it fell on a very busy part of the year, so we appreciate you coming out!”

More cheering exploded, as the party looked like it had been in full swing for at least an hour already, as it seemed several people were already sloshed. Either that, or they were desperate drunks. Either way, Dean zoned out on Michael’s speech, thinking that perhaps he had underestimated how uncomfortable the situation was going to be, how _exposed_. And just _maybe_ he did owe Michael for sponsoring his trips to the doctor, but was it worth it?

Dean zeroed back into the speech as Michael reached over and tugged him in close. He didn’t like it, but because he couldn’t smell Michael, it wasn’t downright repulsive like it usually was.

“…and my charming companion, Dean Winchester, who has kindly accompanied me this evening!”

He awkwardly smiled and waved at the crowd, spying more than one pair of envious eyes trained on him.

Michael better not leave him alone. There were enough bitter expressions in the crowd to make him nervous as fuck. Dean hoped he wasn’t about to get jumped in the omega toilet. Or even walking there, considering how many betas were after the Novak legacy ~~in Michael’s pants~~.

Michael finished up his speech having grasped a flute of champagne from one of the attending elves, and toasted the assembly (one arm around Dean) with a hearty, “Happy Holidays, everyone! May your days be bright!”

“Happy Holidays!” Came the rousing reply, people hugging each other drunkenly and giggling at pretty much everything.

It made Dean wonder how many of them were also on drugs, but he didn’t want to know. He eyed Michael warily. He was probably already jonesing for another hit of Slick if the subtle bit of perspiration at his hairline meant anything.

They swanned off the stage and the band started up again, rousing rendition of “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” as he and Michael started moving among the crowds and greeting people one-to-one.

Not that Dean got to say much.

Michael kept him tucked a bit behind him, leaving Dean to observe the guests.

There were a lot of omegas, if the amount of jewel tones and collars were to be believed. Omega wear was often clingy and, even on male omegas, ridiculously sexist. Dean saw obviously male omegas bedecked in figure-hugging dresses and jeweled collars, their mating bites out for anyone to view. It was creepy in a way being a prostitute had not been. The Omegas in Purgatory had their pride and wore whatever they pleased.

They hadn’t been meat puppets for alphas and even betas to parade around like prizes. It made Dean slightly angry. He was, he realized, one of the lucky ones that he received a suit that covered him from neck to toes, even if it was more form-fitting that he was used to.

And that, he thought, is rather saying a lot.

They turned a circuit in the room, Michael pausing to chat up anyone he needed to, and, again, Dean plastered a grin on his gob and zoned out.

It was at one of these moments, when he was distracted by the champagne tray passing him by and ~~desperately~~ followed it, that he found himself separated from Michael.

Not that he cared, precisely, because the champagne was cool and crisp on his tongue, and he was relieved to not hear the same spiel from Michael’s fake smiling face about “how nice to see you here” and “Oh, of course! How could I forget your lovely blah blah blah?”

He nabbed another couple of flutes from the next passing waiter, and also gulped the second one down. He was about to drown himself in flute three and look around for flute four and maybe five if he were lucky, when his luck ran out.

“Well, Dean Winchester. They do just let _anyone_ in here nowadays.”

 _Fuck. Fuck fuck **fuck**_. _Why me god??_

Dean slowly lowered his third flute of champagne from his mouth and held back the huge resigned sigh he wanted to release.

“Bela,” he said flatly, “I’d say it was a pleasure to see you here, but it’s really _not_.”

Bela smirked at him, her lips a glossy bright red, an off-the-shoulder red satin gown that revealed both her shoulders and most of her left leg. “Likewise,” she said in her pompous accent.

She looked him over and commented, “Well, you clean up nice. Michael get that for you?”

Dean shrugged. “It helps he at least knows who I am. Makes a difference.”

He smirked at Bela’s flare of rage and sipped on his champagne. He was totally unprepared for her to narrow her eyes and step into his personal space by pretending to straighten his tie. She pulled in even closer, her lips touching the edge of his earlobe.

“Not forever,” she whispered, breath hot, “I will _end_ you. This is your absolute last warning. He’s _mine_!”

“Is everything alright?”

Dean shuddered as Bela stepped away lightly in her strappy red spiked heels, her face magically transformed into a charming Omega visage. She straightened her back and tilted her head a bit, leaving her neck bare for Michael’s interest.

Michael squinted at her (in a weirdly familiar way) and said, “I’m sorry… have we met?”

Bela colored under his impersonal stare and shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.

Dean smiled smugly and murmured, “Naomi’s sister, remember?”

Michael snapped his fingers and gasped out, “AH! Yes! I remember!”

He smiled pleasantly and said, “I hope you’re having a lovely time here. I’m afraid I have to take Dean with me, though. There’s a fellow from the Tokage Zaibatsu here I’d like him to meet. Plus I think Bruce Willis showed up with his beta mate. You might enjoy talking to him.”

Grinning, Dean said, “He’s pretty bad ass for a beta! I’d love to meet him!”

Michael smoothed a hand down the curve of Dean’s back possessively, and Dean let him because, one, he was playing trophy Omega, and two, he knew it pissed Bela off.

As they weaved through the milling crowds, Michael cleared his throat and licked his lips. “I wanted to ask you just one more favor,” he murmured into Dean’s ear.

It was, really, the most action his ear had gotten in ages, he thought. “Yeah, sure.”

“Will you come to my family’s New Year’s Eve party with me? Because I’d love for you to meet them and I think you’d enjoy how festive the whole of the Novak pack lands gets. Everyone celebrates.”

Faintly scowling, Dean was about to refuse when he looked up and found Bela had been observing them closely, sipping on her beverage as she matched their steps from a few feet away.

Dean huffed and leaned into Michael’s space, deliberately touching the man’s jaw with his fingers and even batting his lashes at him. ~~Okay, yeah, he was going to hate himself later~~. “I would love to go,” he replied.

Michael broke into a surprisingly happy grin, grabbing Dean’s hand from his cheek and dropping a kiss into the palm. “Thank you! You won’t regret it!”

Sliding his gaze over to Bela, he saw she was silently fuming, her fingers tight around the column of the flute glass. Her eyes warned him, while he smirked at her and turned his back. Fuck her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Portable Hookah Pipes:** With vaping being a thing, I'm going to guess no one is really surprised.
> 
>  **Arctic Fox Fur:** You can probably tell I'm not a fan of fur. It gives me the shivers. I'm not a vegetarian, but even sheepskins give me the ick. Anyway, the coat I was thinking of looks [similar to this... ](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/33/e0/24/33e0244bc72821537d3db77da6b262a9.jpg)
> 
> **La Perla:** Yeah, if you don't know, this company makes gorgeous lingerie. I went looking into different lingerie companies, and none of them were quite what I wanted, so... the somewhat more conservative La Perla it was. *ahem* (Lingerie is ridiculously priced in general, IMO. But hey! If it makes you feel gorgeous, do it!)
> 
> Any other questions, go ahead and ask! Or if there's something in the world building you're curious about, feel free to ask! 
> 
> Hmm... Ch 10 is being written, and I've finally gotten where I've been TRYING to get. But I have a couple of small bangs to work out and the DCSS. So, although I'm writing (and excited) I've got a list... geh.


	10. I don't want you to leave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not what it looks like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is sort of beta'd/alpha'd. Sort of. I was going to add another 5K, but then I thought I just wanted to get this out in the world, so here it is.
> 
> ART 1: [linneart.tumblr.com](http://linneart.tumblr.com)  
> ART 2: [mausratt.tumblr.com](http://mausratt.tumblr.com) This guy is one of my favs! Give him a look!!
> 
> The tag for dub-con has been added because of this and the next couple of chapters. The characters are not really "themselves," thanks to mating hormones, so... the consent is dubious.
> 
> Also, the tag for "mild bestiality" has been added. There is no penetrative sex, ok. But there is some stuff and I want to make sure no one is surprised by it. (That is as much "bestiality" as we're getting, and it's mild, but... hey. Some folks hate that stuff. I swear it's not a lot or bad by most standards.)
> 
> Title still from [Sam Smith's Stay With Me](https://youtu.be/pB-5XG-DbAA).

**Sam**

Sam was sitting uncomfortably in the breakfast nook in Missouri’s place. As the owner and manager of the trailer park, Missouri was entitled to a solid home among the rest. The fact it was a settled double-wide trailer didn’t really make a difference because it was still very nice, especially because she lived alone and kept her office in one of the spare rooms. Besides, her presence as manager was why the Winchesters had been able to get such a _nice_ price and set up for their temporary home.

Sam was sitting in the nook, despite it almost being too small for his giraffe legs, because he was watching Missouri bake brownies and he didn’t want to sit alone by the TV, even if it was just a few feet away.

“He’s going to be fine, Sam,” Missouri said out of the blue as she spooned the mix into a pan. “Dean is stronger than most people give him credit for.”

Fidgeting, Sam replied, “Yeah, but…he’s out dating some alpha without Deacon Castiel knowing, and Bishop Joshua says that those two basically have to figure it out themselves or it won’t work.”

Missouri smiled as she put the brownies into the oven, dusting her hands of flour as she stood back. “Joshua is an incredibly wise and clever old coot. I’ve always thought so.” She turned to Sam,  with nimble fingers untying the pink ruffled apron she had donned to cook. “Those two have a profound bond that neither really wants to acknowledge for their own reasons I’m sure.”

Sam sighed. “Yeah, but what if he, like, _mates_ this alpha? What if it makes him really unhappy? He’s been so unhappy the last couple of months and only recently has he started to smell like himself at all. I don’t even know what happened that he reeked of sorrow!”

Missouri sat next to him and took his hand in her slightly chapped own, smelling like sugar and chocolate from her efforts. “Dean felt like he had been rejected by his alpha, Sam. His inner Omega must’ve felt like it was dying because its perfect mate, the one made for them by God, rejected him.”

Eyes big, Sam whispered, “Can that happen? Did Dean almost… did he almost _die_?”

Missouri petted the young man’s head with her plump fingers. “Honey, Dean is more stubborn than a stable full of donkeys, and he loves you more than anything. I don’t think there’s anything that would stop him from staying with you.”

Swallowing hard, Sam leaned into the petting, enjoying the motherly comfort from the aging beta. “But I want him to be happy, Missouri,” he muttered, eyes closed. “This other alpha won’t make him happy and he deserves that.”

Missouri dropped a kiss on his trembling crown and whispered comfortingly, “God has plans for us all, Sam. He has plans to make Dean happy, even if those two can’t see it. But you’ll see. It’ll turn out okay.”

Sighing into the comfort, Sam murmured, “I hope so.”

* * *

**Dean**

The thing about the Novak mansion was that it _inexplicably_ smelled like home. It was a weird and he assumed it was because his sense of smell suddenly started to work a bit, just enough that he could scent the house for whatever bizarro biological reason.

It didn’t matter that it was the first thing he’d been able to scent in months. It was gigantic, practically a palace, and should not, in any way, _smell like home_. Dean let his eyes wander over the stained glass window of the spacious entrance way, the familiar-looking female butler taking his jacket and baggage and telling him to follow her.

He was taken to a full wing of the building (a freaking _wing!_ ) and led into a bedroom with a large four-poster bed and an ornate chest of drawers, along with a wardrobe and a long full-body mirror. At least the colors were interesting, deep maroons that shimmered with light from the fabrics that matched well the deep cherry stain of the furniture. The bedspread also had sequins and velvet sewn into it, giving it a lovely bohemian look.

“This room is gorgeous,” Dean said, turning to face the young butler.

She smiled and bowed. “It’s a pleasure to see you pleased, sir. Anything else I can get you?”

Dean shook his head and then eyed her for a moment. “Am I…” He coughed awkwardly. “Am I supposed to tip you or…?”

The butler smiled a bit more widely and shook her head minutely. “No sir. I receive a generous wage. Please tug on that rope there next to the bed should you require anything else.”

“Ah, yes,” Dean said faintly, eyeing the heavy rope with an actual tassel at the end.

She let herself out and Dean just stared at the opulence. It was actually worse than Michael’s place.

He had just settled himself carefully onto the edge of the bed when the door opened and a somewhat-short blond man let himself in.

“You must be Dean,” he said, grinning as he extended his hand. “I hope you don’t mind. I just wanted to see the young man who set my brothers on their ears.”

“Brothers?” Dean blinked, automatically putting his hand out. “What do you mean?”

The man shook his extended hand and said, “Come on, now. I’m Gabriel. You can call me Gabe. My twin, Luci, doesn’t have time right now to come meet you, so I thought I’d do the honors.”

“Ah.” Dean eyed the guy. The shorter stature, the slim build, the gold eyes… Dean would bet he was an omega. “Is your brother also an omega?”

Gabe grinned broadly and laughed. “Ah, we’re both purebloods. Not that it matters as Omegas, but it does give us a level of freedom that others don’t have.”

“Purebloods! That’s… that’s…” _Impressive? Frightening?_ Dean’s mouth stuttered around the adjective.

Gabe shrugged and nudged Dean back onto the bed. “It’s more freeing than anything. No expectations that I have to take over the family business _and_ I get to pick my own mate. Not like you poor schmucks lower on the totem pole.” He cocked his head. “But… you’re a second-level, right? So maybe you do get it?”

Dean nodded. “I've worked with a lot of second-level Omegas for some reason. You’re my first pureblood, though.”

Slapping him on the shoulder, Gabe jumped off the bed and said, “Glad to pop your cherry! Now, you look exhausted and, seriously, you’re going to need all your strength to put up with the entire fam.”

“I would imagine so. This is a lot more intimidating than I kinda thought.” Dean groaned and swiped a hand over his face.

“Yeah, saw the pics from the Christmas Party! People were dying to know the deets and if you were going to make an honest Alpha of my oldest brother.”

Dean shook his head. “I'm doing him a favor. He helped me out of a tight spot, so I owe him.”

Gabe frowned. “I sure as fuck hope you don’t owe him _too_ much. And I hope in the end you don’t say ‘yes’ just because you feel obligated. That’s a surefire way to make sure everyone’s unhappy.”

Dean blinked at Gabe, not sure he was following, and Gabe smirked. “Never mind, man. You’ll see what I mean. We have dinner in a few hours. Formal dinner. So make sure to dolly up for Mikey, okay?”

Scowling, Dean said, “Yeah, okay. Formal wear. Got it.”

Gabe left Dean sitting on the bed, thinking things through. He had hoped that Michael wasn’t going to try and push him to mate him, but now…

Anxiously, he laid back on the bed to try and rest. _Could this evening get any worse...?_

* * *

Dean was wandering the hall, looking for someone— _anyone_ —to lend him a hand with his tie. He didn’t want to ask the staff because… why would the staff do that for him? 

As he awkwardly stood there, feelng uncomfortable as fuck, a handsome man looking somewhat frazzled started to sweep past him. Dean opened his mouth to ask for help as he sailed passed, when the guy paused mid-step to turn and stare.

“Are you the omega my brother Mikey brought home?”

Blunt. Very blunt.

“I might be,” Dean countered, annoyed.

The guy chuckled at Dean’s expression, and said, “Sorry, man! I’m in a rush. Mother will have my head on a pike if I’m late. Lucifer Novak. I believe you’ve met my twin, Gabe?” He held out a hand for Dean to shake.

Surprised, Dean looked over the new Novak as he shook the proffered hand.

Much like Dean, Lucifer was taller than the average Omega and looked stronger too. His blond hair was slicked back and he was wearing a business suit, the tie loose and hanging as if he had been in the middle of undressing when he had come across Dean.

“Uh, yeah. I met him.” Cranking up his courage, Dean leaned in and asked, “Hey, do you think you can lend me a hand with this tie? I apparently suck at doing it fancy.”

Lucifer grinned and nodded, pulling him in closer and reaching for his tie.

“My, Mikey is certainly fortunate to find a lovely Omega like you,” he murmured as he tugged and fussed Dean’s tie into obedience. “I’m sure my parents will be pleased.”

Dean ignored the burning in his cheeks and thanked Lucifer for his help. “I was told to wait for Michael, so I guess I’ll meet you downstairs?”

Lucifer winked (winked!) and took off to his room, singing, “Of course! I wouldn’t _dream_ of missing this.”

Uneasily, Dean swallowed hard and went back into his assigned room, closing the door behind him firmly. He sighed heavily and leaned against the door, trying to find his bearing.

It unnerved him to realize that he really didn’t have one.

* * *

After meeting and finding out from Michael’s _mother_ —a frighteningly powerful Beta with whiskey-brown eyes that practically glowed with her inner strength and the fact she was exacting in her expectations—that he was being vetted as a potential _mate_ for Michael, Dean had already thought he couldn’t get angrier and that things couldn’t get worse.

_He was wrong. Oh, so wrong._

Dean had not expected to find out Deacon Castiel was Castiel _Novak_ , Michael’s younger brother. And, considering that Cas was a pureblood Alpha, that undoubtedly made him the heir to the Kingdom Novak, not the second-level Alpha Michael.

**_That meant Dean had unwittingly stepped into a familial power struggle for the fucking Novak throne and an overall stink-o-riffic mess. He was so fucked._ **

Even worse, his sense of smell had decided to return with a vengeance when faced with Cas and his overwhelming stench of rage/possessiveness/violence, like it had just been waiting for his _not-mate_ to show up and rekindle his nostrils. The miasma had had the unfortunate effect of turning him on _and_ making him weak in the knees. He had nearly fallen and _presented_ _right **there**_ , and he had accidentally clung to Michael while trying not to do that in front of everyone.

The reek of _betrayal_ had woven into the tsunami of scents that came off the near-feral Alpha, Cas’s blue eyes completely red with his emotions, his fangs and claws out, even as he cracked the piece of table he was gripping like a stress ball, making it pop like gunshots.

“Castiel!” Dean heard Cas’s mother trying to get his attention, while the scent of protective Alpha started to come off Cas’s father.

The Lucifer guy had a grip on Cas’s arm and seemed to be trying to stop him from freaking out as Michael (obliviously) finished the introductions.

Dean cringed as Cas stared at him, gritted his teeth, and said, “Oh, yes. Dean and I know each other quite well. His brother is an altar boy at St. Thomas.” He turned that rictus smile towards Lucifer, who actually cringed. “His brother is a good kid. I believe he wants to be a lawyer like you, Lucifer. Perhaps you can chat with him sometime?”

Dean watched Lucifer narrow his eyes before lowering them submissively. “Of course, Cassy. If you want me to.”

Cas barked out a laugh, something bitter and pained, and then turned towards Michael, his eyes not even acknowledging Dean pinned at Michael’s side. Through clenched teeth, Cas ground out, “If you excuse me, I need to wash my hands.”

Unsurprisingly, everyone just got out of his way, especially since Cas was still gripping the piece of wood without realizing he was still squeezing it anxiously, leaving a trail of splinters and gut-wrenchingly angry-Alpha funk in his wake.

Dean managed to catch a silent exchange between Gabriel and Lucifer that led to Gabriel’s rolling his eyes and walking after Cas.

Michael scowled after his brothers and asked, “What the hell was that?”

Hael tittered nervously as Lucifer sighed the sigh of the heavily put upon.

“Emotional growth of a half-dead sponge,” he mumbled, but replied much louder, “I’m not sure. Cassy has been rather… upset lately. You know that.”

Michael turned and eyed Lucifer, his grip on Dean getting fiercer, while Dean just wanted to escape and go after Cas himself. To present and beg forgiveness. To give himself to the angry Alpha so as to calm him.

“I just thought he was a having a crisis of faith or something,” Michael said blandly.

“Or something,” Lucifer dryly added, looking Dean in the eye as he did so.

Dean took that moment to throw up on Michael’s shoes and pass out.

* * *

Somehow Dean had managed to not vomit on himself. Hael and Lucifer had not been as lucky and had had to change out of their barf-splattered clothes along with a drenched Michael, postponing dinner a bit. It was just as well, really. Dean hadn’t been up to looking at, much less interacting with Michael. At all.

It felt like a small victory for his pride when he was still able to attend the dinner after smelling salts were applied and he was found to be physically fine and his clothing free of bile.

So much for looking good for the Novaks.

But it didn't really matter, he thought vaguely.

His fuzzy brain still wasn’t connecting well when his elbow was later (he didn’t know how much later; he’d been deep in anxious thought) gripped by Michael and he was led into the dining room. Cas wasn’t in the room yet and Gabriel was still missing, but it was just as well as Michael pressed covetous lips to Dean’s forehead and sat him at the table, while moving to his own assigned seat near the head of the table.

As was his right as presumptive heir to the kingdom.

It was how Dean was now pinned between two people he had been introduced to but whose names he couldn’t remember for the life of him. He grimaced internally as the odor of ozone bubbled off Cas as he walked in with Gabriel, the stink making Dean’s skin prickle and his stomach turn.

A few seats away, with at least half a dozen people and a good length of table, Cas was seated between Hael and Gabriel, his eyes glued to his plate, anger still radiating off of him. It didn’t help Dean relax. Not even the fact Michael was sitting away from him, while the people he was seated next to were speaking to the people on their other sides (taking all of their attention) didn’t help his internal struggle.

 

He felt trapped and anxious. He imagined the food was undoubtedly delicious (it certainly looked amazing) but he couldn’t eat it. He nibbled at the different courses but his stomach rejected everything. He just felt so useless and the idea that he was essentially tormenting his mate with his presence was making everything so much worse. When his seating companions spoke to him, Dean spoke minimally and ended up smiling weakly while his throat tightened.

And he had thought being dolled up and dragged around like a talking Ken doll had been the highest point of “bad” he had been forced to endure.

Dean was sure he was emitting distress Omega, which probably accounted for why people left him be in his bubble of misery. He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, catching Michael's eye by mistake. Michael winked at him from across the table for some reason, and Dean faintly, uncomfortably smiled back.

A tendril of pure rage from Cas snuck up on him, causing him to choked on bite of seared tuna. Dean didn't know how he had avoided the Heimlich maneuver, although a bus boy had whacked him between the shoulders a couple of times and gave him more water. (And pitying looks.) 

Dessert was a wash. The slice of  _Bûche de Noël_  refused to render itself swallowable in his dry mouth. Dean had been looking forward to getting his sense of smell back, just so he could taste things! But nothing smelled good with Cas fuming nearby.

He managed to drink the mulled wine at least, even if it swished unpleasantly in his tight and mostly empty stomach.

Out of sheer discomfort, Dean was glad when dinner ended. People were standing and talking pleasantly, somehow ignoring the odoriferous elephant in the room. Dean didn't even know how they managed it, but he supposed it was so-called "superior breeding."

Michael came around the table to where Dean was ~~staggering~~ standing up along with everyone else and pressed him to his side.

Dina, who was being helped up by one of her dining companions, smiled at them and cooed, “Aw, aren’t you sweet?”

“Isn’t he though?” Michael grinned, squeezing Dean a bit.

Dean immediately wanted to puke out whatever he had managed to eat at the renewed heavy aroma of bamboo and ocean assaulting his nose, and it got worse as Michael leaned in and kissed him lightly on the mouth.

The fact that Dean shoved away from Michael’s chest and gagged was lost as an unholy growl vibrated through the room, possibly even the house. The sound of snapping twigs and mushy things being squished together was nothing compared to the reek of outrage and pure fury. Screams erupted as people caught the smell and sight of what caused the cracking of the long wooden table, and then people panicked and ran as a howl rent the air and seized all the air in the room in its pure wrath.

Dean staggered away from Michael, falling back on his ass, and stared as a _giant fucking wolf_ scrambled onto the table and glared at him, betrayed. Dean’s Omega whined and he tilted his head to reveal his throat without thinking, trembling even as the scent of _mate_ assaulted his senses. **_Furious_ ** _mate._

The Wolf was easily five-feet tall at the shoulder, its fur a bristling dark brown, its eyes preternaturally ice blue and glowing angrily in the shifting light of the swinging chandelier. Its teeth gleamed white in contrast to the dark fur as it snarled, the growl rumbling out of its mouth like an avalanche of reproach, and its ears were flat against its skull.

It—HE—was beautiful.

Without realizing it, slick was starting to pour out of Dean at the sight of his gorgeous mate and who was _not_ -mate. He wanted. Dear God that Sam prayed to on a regular, he **_wanted_ **.

Michael, of course, chose that moment to stand in front of Dean, teeth also elongated and claws out, roaring out his own displeasure.

Cas gave the second-level lycan a contemptuous look before snarling at him, and then leaped off the table and through one of the glass doors to the outside like it was made of tissue paper, leaving the sound of clinking glass and the godawful pong of pureblood Alpha anger behind him.

Dean blinked at the abrupt departure, the world coming back into focus as he realized people were talking loudly and a few people had fainted dead away when confronted with the stench of pureblood anger. Even Michael had not received much attention as a _changed_ second-level Alpha, his body slowly changing back, as a few people cried at how frightened they were, while a few whispered about how glorious a _true_ pureblood Alpha’s transformation was.

Cas’s father had moved to his wife's side, his own anger burning in the air.

Cas’s mother cleared her throat awkwardly in the aftermath, trying to regain control of the assembly, and smiled tenuously at the remaining guests. “Uh, shall we move to the main ballroom?”

Dean didn’t wait to find out if anyone listened. If anyone called for him, he didn't hear them.

He needed to go. Get out. Get **_away_ **.

He bolted out the main doors into the hallway and skittered away, blindly running through the house and ignoring people’s shock at his behavior. He vaguely heard Michael’s calling after him, but he ignored it, running deeper into the house’s bowels.

In the kitchen, he slipped past the lines of waiters who were prepping hors d’oeuvres and flutes of champagne for the general party guests, and careened past a familiar voice yelling, “What the hell is going on?!” before bursting out into the frigid air of Illinois.

He didn’t stop for a coat or overshoes and kept going, even as the flurries seemed to fall even thicker onto his head. It didn’t matter. He wanted to roll in the fresh snow and rid his skin of the bamboo and ocean scent that seemed to have seeped into his pores without his realizing it.

Dean forced his body forward, the faint scent of _his_ Alpha moving him through the snow. The snow was more broken here, behind the house, the steps of the wolf leading into the far woods. Not thinking, Dean kept pushing on, his heart breaking again for his lost Alpha.

Because he had scented that Cas **_wanted_ ** him. He had scented the possessiveness. The _want_ and _rage_ off his mate…

Maybe… maybe he _could_ have this?

But his fancy leather shoes were not made for hiking through the biting air, nor was his tuxedo made to fend off snow flurries that fell like a deluge from heaven. He shivered, looking over at the pond and the shuddered as snow melted off his head and trickled into his collar. It didn't help his pants were already drenched in slick, but his clothing in general was getting wetter and wetter, and the cold was seeping into his bones more as he trudged forward.

The house seemed to be at a distance now, the snow completely blinding him as to his exact position in relation. His shoe slipped on something and he tumbled down face first into the piles of snow. Even the trail he had been following was gone now, hidden by the new snow.

Dean realized that, right now, he was in _deep shit_.

He didn’t know where he was, he didn’t have the right clothes, and there was no sign of Cas or the house.

Stubbornly, he stood up and forced his feet forward, but they were starting to hurt from thin leather and thinner socks being no protection from the wet snow that had creeped into his shoes, or from the fact he had twisted his ankle when he had fallen.

He cursed his luck, his breath pluming like a dragon's in the cold, and he came to the realization that he might die. This moment. In fucking Illinois because he couldn’t keep his hormones under control.

Sadly, hyperventilating was tough in below freezing weather. Just as he found breathing had become difficult, each breath harder to inhale because it was just so cold, he caught the muffled sound of a howl, and staggered in its direction. His Omega was desperate. This was what it had been waiting for, Dean could feel it.

His Omega had still been waiting for _Cas_.

He nearly collapsed again as his weakened ankle tried to give way, and he yelped in pain.

Dean had never truly understood how snow swallowed sound and left the world cushioned in its icy hands. He swiveled, his hips aching with the movement, which was better than the numbness that was viciously attacking his buried feet and knees.

As he tried to move again, he spotted something dark moving through the snow. His teeth chattering like plastic toy teeth, he grimaced at the sight as it slipped among the birch trees.

Dean huffed out a determined breath and made himself move in the shadow’s direction, only to collapse in the snow as his legs gave out.

He watched the woods, praying Cas still wanted him.

As he began to lose hope, a tall, dark shadow emerged from the trees, barely visible in the snow flurries as it approached. Dean had resorted to clutching his upper arms and rubbing them with his numb hands as he watched it. Its eyes glowed in the snow’s glare, and it moved on huge padded feet the size of dinner plates until it was almost in front of him.

“Cas…” Dean sighed with relief, reaching for the wolf before everything went black.

* * *

It was hot.

It wasn’t even just warm. Or moist.

It was _hot and moist._ And hard to breathe.

Dean grumbled and tried to move, but the ridiculously solid and heavy fur blanket that covered him refused to budge. Its thick hair was getting in his mouth, and it smelled like wet dog… but… muskier. And familiar.

When his half-hearted shoves finally moved the fur blanket off of him, he was suddenly sure he had heard a huff from it.

It had huffed at him and then _moved_.

He forced open his eyes and looked around from his position on his back.

The roof was completely white, reflecting back the light from the multitude of violet LED lamps. There were rows of green stuff suspended and rotating slowly so they would all receive equal amounts of light.

It felt like at least 75F wherever he was. Without the stench of wet dog in his face, the fragrances of rich fertile earth, clean water, and growing things assaulted his nose.

He tried to sit up and his body protested the movement. Stubbornly, he managed it with a groan, rubbing his face with pained fingers, and checked his surroundings again.

He was naked, on the ground, with his (ruined) jacket underneath him, and his bones _ached_ like he had been in a hit and run with a speedy Zamboni. The place indeed smelled like deep, rich earth, growing things, and a quick glance around reinforced the idea: the violet LED lighting, the heat, the number of plants that smelled edible… he was in a greenhouse.

A big one from the look of it, too.

Sitting in front of him, on his haunches, was the giant Wolf. It observed him from a short distance, its bright blue eyes wary and waiting.

Dean took in a deep breath and his stressed body relaxed because under the wet-dog smell was the smell of apple pie and linen: mate. **_Cas_**.

Realizing he had been saved from freezing to death, and that Cas had been hurt by his action, Dean groaned inwardly and tried to speak. Embarrassingly, a squeak and rattle came out, and Dean coughed violently trying to clear it. 

Cas watched with concern but did nothing. Dean got more saliva going, coughed again and sighed. Rubbing his face, he said, “I'm sorry, Cas. I swear, it's not what it looked like.”

The Wolf huffed decisively and Dean looked back up to find he had rolled his blue eyes.

“I didn't know how bad it had gotten, I swear!” Dean pleaded, tilting his head slightly to offer his neck.

Cas snorted and his ears flicked back, giving Dean a flatly unimpressed look.

Dean whined faintly, somewhat distressed in his nudity, and tried to move his aching body towards Cas, hoping he wasn't about to be rejected again.

He was sure he wouldn't survive another round of that hell.

But his body was in agony as he tried to stretch his arms forward to crawl, even the joints of his fingers protesting the movement against the warm, soft earth he was laying on, and a louder, more piteous whine escaped him, one he would deny to his dying day, that he didn't get very far. He collapsed face first into the warm earth.

Concerned, Cas padded forward, sniffing at Dean's distress. The large paws planted themselves on each side of Dean's prone body, and Dean tensed as he remembered that he was butt naked and the currently-hovering, huge Wolf was Not Happy with him. He made himself as small as he could, as _submissive_ as he could, to appease his Alpha. A mate who really didn't want him, he reminded himself, keeping himself from actually presenting, if only to keep some semblance of pride.

The Wolf’s cold nose seemed to drink in Dean's scent deeply from the juncture where his neck met his shoulder, snuffling at it. Dean shivered, suppressing the arousal the scenting fed, as if the warm heat off Cas’s body over his, his **_mate’s_ ** transformed body so powerful and commanding, wasn't enough to get him half hard and wanting to present.

He was about to start whimpering when a hot tongue began to bathe his shoulders and back, covering him with the scent of linen and apple pie, with the aroma of aroused molasses twining in, as Cas completely moved down Dean's naked, supine body with long, lingering, _possessive_ licks.

It felt good. Like he was being covered in love and adoration, like he was special and wanted, even with an occasional nibble teasing his flesh.

The Wolf nosed Dean's hip, and he groaned as he forced his ass in the air as nature intended his Omega to do for his mate.

He was more than moderately sure his ass was covered in dirt, but the Wolf didn't seem to care as he straddled over Dean’s prone body and deliberately pressed that hot tongue in the curve of Dean’s nape.

A shudder bolted through Dean's body and he gushed slick and desire over the show of dominance. Cas licked him there again, nipping this time, making Dean whine with how sensitive the spot was. One bite and he'd be dead. One snip and his spine would be separated from his head. So close to where he'd get a mating bite, but closer to certain death if he wasn't careful.

His Omega reveled in the trust he gave his Alpha not to hurt him, in the sheer power his mate wielded over his body. Dean was barely clinging to his senses, his Omega so desperate for his mate’s knot, the one he thought he'd never have.

The languid licks continued down his back now and Dean wiggled impatiently, whimpering at not getting the relief he craved. Cas was taking his fucking time, and Dean was already impatient. He wanted that knot months ago. This was torture!

It felt like forever, like Dean was teetering on the edge of his heat, he was so turned on, when the Wolf sniffed at Dean's leaking hole. Unable to stop himself, Dean flexed it and shimmied his whole ass, knowing slick was dribbling out like a waterfall. He knew it was enticing. _But he **wanted** so much... _

The Wolf growled. It reverberated through the air and Dean went still, only a few small mewls escaping him.

Dean trembled. He needed _something_ . He just _needed._..Cas.

The long tongue licked the dip between his spine and his ass, before licking at Dean's inner thighs, cleaning the excess slick that was dripping from him. Dean sobbed into the earth, his fingers clutching at the warm soil, and when Cas finally lapped at his hole, Dean keened.

All he could think was he needed more, even as the Wolf snuffled in, his tongue going so deep and licking him clean of slick… _finally,_ he thought _, my mate is touching me!_

The realization of his hopes coming true, to have his mate at least desire him, Dean came hard, crying out as his pained fingers dug into the soft earth and his body seized as his sore muscles recalled they ached.

And—again—Dean fell into darkness.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have a bit to go before we get Cas's POV. And the talking I promised... which would have come along with the 5K I have not yet written. (Which is important to the greenhouse thing.)
> 
> I'm sorry this is so SHORT again!! I hope the art made up for it! 
> 
> Also, Yeah... I'm a bit sketchy about parts, but... I take constructive criticism well!

**Author's Note:**

> I am working on this but SO SLOWLY. CONTINENTAL DRIFT SLOWLY. GLACIALLY SLOW. I promise!!! This is NOT abandoned!! I just have GRAD SCHOOL and IRL holding me down!


End file.
